Of Shopping

No, Bacon could not have written anything about this! Even his much-read ‘Of Travel’ bypasses the issue. While we can barely separate travel from shopping, Bacon makes an oblique reference to it, telling his readers that it isn’t desirable to pick anything or everything that comes his way while travelling…picking up foreign culture demands some degree of pragmatism on part of the traveller. But for us, the lesser mortals (I mean the presumably morally corrupt, with no admirable respect for tradition, and that’s what the brooding vanguards of Victorian morality think), the ‘foreign-bred’ is dearer to the ‘home-grown’, and we really believe, at times, ‘Ghar ka murgi dal barabar’. Therefore, with shopping malls mushrooming faster than monsoon-enthused mushrooms and driving us crazy with a gigantic spectrum of brand-names, our path to consumerist salvation seems to have been carved out.

Believe me, I’m not here to write about the evils of shopping; I’m very much in favour of the great economic liberalization, which has, at least, if not anything else, truly liberated us from the trauma of wearing unimaginative apparels and of having no sense of accessories. (Let me stop here and share something with you: In spite of such tsunamic revolution in the attire arena, I more often than not suffer visual strokes on having to watch my irredeemably middle class colleagues sporting prehistoric clothes and bags which should have received honourable awards in the dumping grounds for being so characteristically ‘dumpable’). Anyways, DKNY, Lacosté, Bare, Levi’s, Reebok, Adidas, Westside, Zodiac, John Miller, and so on and so forth have joined hands to make Gardens of Eden of the Shopping Malls…the only difference in this Paradise is that covetousness here is no sin. In fact, the “Dil Maange More” slogan popularized by Pepsi is the driving mantra!

My heart aches and a drowsy numbness pains my sense, if I do not have too much in my wallet to spend in the shopping malls. Oftentimes, I feel that I may even forego my honesty and heed Iago’s culpable advice “Put money in thy purse”, if that means endless shopping. My friend U and I never tire of lamenting our proletariat status every time we lay our eyes on diamond-studded watches and designer furniture that hang like forbidden fruits right under our nose. My friend D vows to himself that he would never come to shopping malls again, for these are evil enticements that drain his bank balance like flood streams, but has never been able to keep that promise. Nothing on the display windows fails to astonish him, and very often than not, he strips unsuspecting mannequins to sheer nakedness, for he usually falls in love with them (I mean, their clothes). Another friend of mine P (who is also like an elder sister) blames it all on her zodiac-sign (Libra) for loving all the ‘good things of life’ and shops till she drops believing that her birth-hour had already predetermined her fate as a compulsive shopper. I am an equally powerful Libran who never feels tired of accompanying P when it comes to shopping, be it here in the city or as far away as Rajasthan. And U keeps on updating me on discounts, and our social network dotted with award-winning shoppers pass on the news with electrifying speed across the city and very often than not we find our friends having an unwitting get-together at these Shopping Elysiums. My abhorrence towards buying vegetables and fish has also evaporated ever since Spencer’s and Big Bazaar have come into the neighbourhood, replacing the nightmarish walk through the odiously smelly, muddy, blood-stained alleys of downmarket bazaars with dream ambling on marble floors in air-conditioned comfort. My mom rails at me for the vegetables are mostly stale and tasteless; but, I choose to overlook such demerits for I believe shopping malls can do no wrong!

We know that shopping malls swindle us into buying things at much higher prices, and the discounts they offer are but a eye-wash. For, the discounted price is the real price of the goods, and the seller is never at a loss. Yet, we love to indulge in them…it’s like gorging on chocolate brownie when you know you must be on a diet. There’s no end to it. Macbeth had murdered Duncan believing that’s it, only one, just one murder, would settle his life as a monarch forever. Well, let’s kill Banquo as well! Just two…then, my position is secured! O no! The poor man had turned into a serial killer by the time the realization dawns upon him that “Life is but a walking shadow…Full of sound and fury/Signifying nothing”. So, beware! Once you step into a shopping mall, believing “O this is just my first time…who’s going to come here again? It’s so expensive, my God!” You are wrong, my dear! The last time never comes. I would say come back, as many times as you wish. Don’t take it so seriously…what if, even when I have alluded to something as serious as Macbeth?

Why I suddenly hated "Dil to Pagal Hai" after a decade of loving it

Dil to Pagal Hai was released when I was still a school kid, naïve, unassuming, easily impressed by fairy tales from Bollywood, understanding everything with the heart and not with the head, and was unnaturally enamoured by the mesmerizing Madhuri Dixit, revelling in the post-Hum Aapke Hain Koun…! hangover that had eclipsed all other existing women, reel-life or real-life! Dil to Pagal Hai arrived at the theatres with a bang and set the box-office bells ringing from Day 1, sucking the audience into the whirlpool of ‘good life’ it celebrated, transposing them to a world levitating much above the ‘ground-reality’. Nursery-rhyme-inspired sets, pageants of abundance in the form of food, clothes, and money, extravagant shaadi ka rasm, dream-like dances, and a naïve heroine, clad in semi-transparent designer apparels, gyrating in lush European meadows, and inhabiting a world so formidably immune from the reality around it, coalesced together to create magic that took in its folds innocent kids like us, almost effortlessly. The impression the film had left on me, ‘I bore in my heart’ for a decade or so, almost deliberately overlooking the substantial hollowness at the very core of it; for, every time I have watched it, I have seen nothing beyond Madhuri Dixit who almost looked ethereal, lolling in the verdurous meadows, lip-syncing to romantic songs in milk-white designer salwar kameezes (the Manish Malhotra kind, which no one had seen ever before)! Her romantic philosophies, the platitudes she uttered were music to our ears, and we hardly ever thought how regressive those were!

Yesterday, I again glued myself to the sofa to watch Dil to Pagal Hai for the 192nd time, when, I was kind of shaken out of a waking dream, and realised, as if in an epiphanic moment, that “fled is that music”, and am really, wide awake now. A thing of beauty cannot be joy forever…Keats was wrong! I suddenly started hating Madhuri Dixit and all her designer nyakami (believe me ‘affectation’ is not a good translation of this adjective…), when it occurred to me that she actually DOES NOTHING in the film. I mean nothing meaningful! Her job is to look good, buy clothes from shopping malls, dance around the trees in the meadows without any sense of time, and LOOK FOR A LOVER! This last thing preoccupies every single moment of her day, like those 24*7 news channels which refuse to stop. How idiotic, my God! She behaves as if people are born to get married, and nothing else is meaningful in life, even if you’re a NASA astronomer, exploring the outer space. Everyday is Valentine’s celebration for her, and she is intolerable enough to Indianize this remarkably western festival (read, Archie’s one more excuse to sell cards and accessories and bamboozle unsuspecting emotionally downmarket lovers) by linking it up with Puranmashi! Sounds like one of those B-grade supernatural thrillers? Yes, it does! For, it’s indeed supernatural, for the even more irritating Shah Rukh Khan really bumps into her over the phone in a wrong connection, on that momentous night of Puranmashi melting into Valentine’s Day. Even more irritating is Aruna Irani, the veteran Godmother of lessons in love, who distributes designer Ganesha idols once things seem to have gone for a toss. And why forget the hideous Farida Jalal? The most excruciatingly painful scene is the one where Akshay Kumar tells her over the phone that he is tying the knot with Madhuri, and she walks into the latter’s room shedding a bucket of tears, and carrying with her an elaborate shaadi ka joda, and god knows, what other stupid accessories on a tray! I wonder did she have an instant-supply of these shaadi ka accessories. Like those instant-noodles and instant-coffee? May be! The world of Dil to Pagal Hai is clinically and incurably mad about getting married, and there’s every possibility that these mother-figures churn out marriage uniforms at the drop of a hat. How retro! How regressive! Awful! O my god, I had never imagined that I would view Dil to Pagal Hai with so much hatred and loathing! I almost surprised myself. I did not ever imagine that I was actually capable of such reactions to the film, which I have loved so much! Finally, I have grown up, I guess. Better late than never, what say?

‘Summer of ’42’: A Prequel to ‘The Reader’?

While watching Robert Mulligan’s Summer of ’42, I was struck by its similarity to The Reader, released in 2008. It’s again a younger boy, the 15-year old Hermie falling in love with the 22-year Dorothy, in the backdrop of the World War II. The Holocaust, if you recall, is the major historical event informing The Reader. Summer of ’42 is as poetic as its title, bringing home to its viewers a tangible feel of a New England beach colony, a summer about which Shakespeare wouldn’t have cribbed! This summer does have a short lease too, but it’s the kind of summer every beloved would have loved himself (or herself) to be compared to. It’s so beautiful, so lyrical and so vibrantly lively. Three young boys, the ‘terrible trio’ as they call themselves, mature from childhood to adolescence through a pedantic knowledge of sex, followed by real life experiences. While these boys literally come of age, their crossing the threshold of innocence culminates in the loss of Hermie’s beloved, Dorothy. Having lost her husband in the war, she finds solace in the arms of Hermie, much to the boy’s surprise. He suddenly matures that night: a casual call turns into an experience of a lifetime when Dorothy melts into him, feeling the intense need of human touch, the very human soul which seems to have been buried beneath the humdrum of the global battle for power. But the next day she leaves, leaving a letter for Hermie, now an adult, overnight. Although he does not understand why she deserts him, the voice-over, the older Hermie seems to have comprehended her sudden disappearance.
The World War II was so cataclysmic that it had battered faith in humanity to death. The bonds of love had become fragile, and summers had turned bloodier than beautiful. Summer of ’42, or for that matter, The Reader, are few of those great sublime works of art that makes an attempt to re-establish faith in humanity, and celebrate love, the fundamental driving principle of life. When the real world is eating and sleeping violence, the responsibility of reaffirming life lies with the world of fiction. And once that responsibility is responsibly taken, you have such gems as Summer of ’42 or The Reader. Though, both the films end on a sad note, it is worth living each and every moment of the film. The war is always happening for us civilians in some place else…we needn’t bother. But every war changes our lives forever. Sometimes we realize it, sometimes we don’t. These films make you realise that in a beautiful way. It’s not just about leaning against the coppice gate and watching…it’s something more than that!

Of Loneliness

Had Francis Bacon been living at this hour, he would have certainly added to his long list of Essays, another having the same title. With the world becoming more and more crowded, loneliness has caught up like an incurable disease which has of late taken the proportion of an epidemic. However, the focus has been more or less on those who are visibly lonely: old people abandoned by their children, widows, a single child, a single man or woman, an expatriate (sometimes nuclear diasporic families), etc. And because people are usually afraid of being lonely, they have, in desperation, found ways to ward off their loneliness. For, frail old people we have old age homes; widows sometimes choose to remarry; a single child is sent to the playschool very early; single men or women are urged on to tie the knot; an expatriate takes no time in joining or sometimes forming communities abroad, and so on and so forth. We are all too ready to hold hands and form a sacred circle to keep away the demon called LONELINESS. But do we really overpower loneliness through bonding? Do we? Understandably, if we do not have anyone to share our deepest sorrows, or our biggest achievements, nothing could be more depressing than that. Remember Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner? Doesn’t his tragedy lie in being alienated from human community for an unforgivable sin? And doesn’t he desperately try to get himself reintegrated to the community by performing the act of penance through sharing his story with the wedding guest? That’s what everyone does. A criminal was often sent on exile or outlawed. The most heinous punishment one can think of! More terrifying, perhaps, than death! Remember Joseph Conrad’s Lord Jim? We needn’t go that far! Consider Ramayana: Sita’s exile to the forest is perhaps the most severe punishment a husband has ever meted out to his wife. The punishment of being alone! Yet, isn’t it more depressing, even tragic, to realise one fine day that you are really alone in spite of company? Like Sita, who supposedly had the most adorable husband in the world (and therefore, she was conventionally, not lonely), we all come to realise some day or the other that we are really really lonely. No loyal friends, no doting lover, no loving relatives, no sympathetic colleagues, no caring spouse can ever embalm that pain, even if they are lying on the same bed with you or are just a phone call away.

Yet, we look for company! Recall those splendidly poetical line: Is ajnabi se seher me jana-pehchana dhunndta hai... (In this strange city, the lonesome soul keeps looknig for an acquaintance) It's so sadly true for all of us! We all need to talk. The moment we start talking, we barely realise, that the medium of conversation, that is language, is a construction, which more often than not fails to communicate the right kind of feelings or emotions, or has a very different or no impact on the listener, for its import is mostly lost on him. Hold on! Tell me, who would actually lend an ear to you? It’s easier to convert coal into diamond than to find a sympathetic listener. We do feel a heavy abhiman (No English synonym can actually bring out the implication of this very beautiful Sanskrit word) unbearably shrouding our hearts…for, friends appear selfish, spouses seem nonchalant, children too busy to pay attention, colleagues too competitive to feel for you…but, we are helpless. We are like Shelley’s Moon whose eyes are perpetually joyless, for she has not yet found a worthy companion who would love her forever. But don’t we feel secured at times by starting off a family? And initially it appears to us that we have found that worthy companion in our spouses? I mean, that’s what people generally do! But such illusion of security is short-lived…however, pitifully permanent for those who unwittingly turn such a relationship into a habit, and refuse to admit that they’ve actually become lonely all over again. May be such delusion saves one from facing a harsh reality head-on. But is that desirable? We continue to play this game until life teaches us the hard way that there is no other way to be than to be alone on the day we leave this world. So, my point is let’s not bewail being lonely…for, that is the norm. And let’s not be afraid…for, we can be gracefully lonely. For, hasn’t the veteran poet said, Jodi tor daak shune keu na ashe, tobey ekla cholo re (If no one answers your call, carry on with the journey, alone)?

Kaustav's Arden: Beyond Barriers: The Kolkata LGBT Film and Video Show Gathers Unprecedented Momentum

Kaustav's Arden: Beyond Barriers: The Kolkata LGBT Film and Video Show Gathers Unprecedented Momentum

Beyond Barriers: The Kolkata LGBT Film and Video Show Gathers Unprecedented Momentum

I exchanged amorous glances with my beloved.

Let the women and girls say what they like---

I exchanged amorous glances with my beloved.

His beautiful face, his charming form

I absorbed into my innermost heart.

----Amir Khusro

The three days (June 12-June 14) at Max Mueller Bhavan, Kolkata saw a proud assertion of sexuality, generally dubbed ‘abnormal’ by a silly ‘normal’ majority, through films and videos from across the globe. The Kolkata LGBT Film and Video Festival smugly entered its third year, throwing to the winds anxieties, hatred, denial, rejection, shame and all other ‘constructed’ negativities associated with alternate sexualities. The films the festival featured were a mixed bag of good and bad flicks, judged by cinematic standards, but each of them has a historically momentous role in representing or giving voice to people mostly overlooked or made fun of in popular culture. Each of these films effectively and unpretentiously narrates the story of ‘invisible’ men and women, and gives them a place in human history.
The turn-out was amazing! Both heterosexual people and people of alternative sexualities gathered in considerable numbers in the premises of Max Mueller Bhavan. The film festival opened up a rather comfortable space to all those who are very often than not jibed at, made butts of laughter, and often brutally humiliated and even ravished in the world outside. ‘Dialogues’ organized by Sappho and Pratyay Gender Trust is kind of an eventful homecoming for all those who are never at home in the big bad world. I could overhear conversations amongst gay men who have come out to their parents and friends; some of them have been accepted, while some have faced downright rejection. Yet they all shone out in resplendent glory and beamed with glee in this public event which is so blissfully open! If the big bad world makes this dismal demand to conform to heteronormativity and any kind of digression is treated with unspeakable malice, Sappho and Pratyay have conquered an honourable space for all those who are treated or maltreated thus. ‘Dialogues’ is one of the many events that seeks to make the presence of those who have been so far treated as non-existent or diseased strongly felt. The festival opened to a full-house with director Onir (My Brother Nikhil) and fashion designer Nil (Dev R Nil) sharing the stage. Next in line was the inaugural film A Jihad for Love, a docufeature narrating ‘coming-out’ stories of men and women from across the globe. Interestingly, many of the films showcased in the festival linked up minority anxieties, religious fundamentalism, apartheid, racism, and the hoax associated with multiculturalism with sexual othering. Both All My Life (set in a conservative Muslim community of Egypt) and The World Unseen (set in an Indian community of South Africa) situate the sexual minority in a world of religious orthodoxy and homophobia, and fierce apartheid respectively. All these films question democracy (if it at all exists), the right of the individual, and the right to assert one’s sexual needs, which are perhaps the most fundamental reality of human life. Harvey Milk’s clarion call — “My name is Harvey Milk and I want to recruit you” — is perhaps the major inspiration behind all these films which seek to recruit people of alternative sexualities in mainstream politics and naturalize homosexuality. Although the murky cloud covering the issue of homosexuality has just started to be lined with silver, it’s really long before the sun shines forth in its full glory. But the journey has begun…certainly it has!

‘The Reader’: Emancipation through reading

The 33-year old Hannah (Kate Winslet) chances upon the 15-year old Michael (David Cross), sick with symptoms of scarlet fever, on her doorsteps one rainy afternoon and the foundation stone of a breezy love affair is set. A love affair set in motion by carnal desires, a young boy’s ecstatic initiation into the world of sex, his sudden realization of his own manliness, takes a ‘literary’ turn as Hannah lays the condition that he has to read to her first before he could bed her. An extraordinary condition indeed, which, Michael does not find difficult to comply with! Their prelude to passionate love-making becomes emotional journeys through literary texts of Homer, Mark Twain, Anton Chekhov, D. H. Lawrence, and many others. Constantly referred to as ‘kid’ both lovingly and condescendingly by the woman, Michael soon realizes that this affair is solely and rather dominantly steered by Hannah’s own will, sometimes whimsical and incomprehensible. His male ego is profoundly hurt by Hannah’s quirky behaviour, her shifting moods, and her maturity. And one fine day, Hannah abandons the apartment without even leaving a note for him. The entire story is told in flashback, when a middle-aged Michael (Ralph Finesse) is now a well-established lawyer in Germany.
The narrative moves to and fro in time, covering several decades, especially the years of the Holocaust. The tagline of the film “How far would you go to protect a secret?” is complemented by a class lecture in which the professor says that most literatures are about keeping a secret really well and he cites the example of Odysseus. Hannah who laughs and cries through the reading sessions also has a deep secret, which she protects with an unimaginable zeal, stretching to an unthinkable extent. Accused of having deliberately locked six hundred Jews in a church on fire, she could have escaped life sentence had she told the court that she could not read or write. Ashamed of her illiteracy, she embraces the punishment with a stoical calm.
The film takes an unusually lovely turn, when Michael who had really fallen in love with Hannah starts sending her recorded books of literary classics, realizing that she cannot read or write. Hannah’s inflated ego had prevented her from telling the court that she was illiterate. The same indomitable ego sees her turning her days behind the bars into the fruitful activity of learning to read and write. She borrows books from the prison library and learns to read by matching the sound (of the recorded text) and the written word. Michael’s love for her comes across as the sustaining quality of the human community which has already seen something as monstrous as the Holocaust. Set against the background of the Holocaust that was inhumanly exclusionary in nature, an irremovable blot on human history, Michael’s pure love for Hannah gathers especial significance. Imprisoned by illiteracy, Hannah’s real emancipation comes, ironically, in the prison where through reading literary classics she emerges as a better human being. She commits suicide in the end, for she has nothing to go back to in the world outside. The freedom she got in the fictional world of literature within the four walls of the prison perhaps seems to her to be marred by her recourse to the real world. She leaves behind all her money to the little girl (now a grown-up woman) who had by a stroke of luck survived the church incident.
Based on a book by Bernhard Schlink, The Reader leaves you mesmerised. Kate Winslet effortless performance, David Cross’ freshness, and Ralph Finesse’s dignified demeanour would stay with you for long. A must watch!

N.B: I have not written a review, really! I only felt like sharing the story with you…it has moved me immensely.

Tagore Woes!

Who’s the biggest Bengali celebrity? No prizes for guessing. It’s Goddess Durga. Who comes next to her? Of course, our very own property - the Kobiguru! Bengalis are melodramatically sentimental about the poet, most of the time, not realizing who they are worshipping and why is he worthy of being worshipped. This year, I was awfully perturbed on my visit to Jorasanko Thakurbari. The place was mindlessly populated (this happens every year) mostly by people who were there to habitually join the bandwagon of Bengali euphoria for Tagore, people who are euphoric about anything on earth, from a lucrative discount at a shopping mall to Aishwarya Rai’s shooting spree on the ghats of the Ganges! There’s nothing wrong in being zestful about everything; but my point is that this overwhelming zest should have some purpose. For instance, there is an understandable purpose in running after a discount, say, at Zodiac or Westside! There is also a purpose behind making a beeline around the shooting spot of an Abhishek-Aishwarya starrer! What is the purpose, you may ask. The purpose is as simple and as unostentatious as taking a look at the stars. Sounds ridiculous? It does! But, that’s the truth, and there’s nothing beyond it. But the purpose of visiting Jorasanko or Rabindra Sadan on ‘25 Baisakh’ (and that too in a red-bordered white sari or designer dhoti-kurta) should have some deeper purpose than just ‘for the sake of remembering Tagore’.
Ironically, and very very unfortunately, most of these Jorasanko and Rabindra Sadan crowd is highly conservative about Tagore. But of course, all of them can at least sing a few lines of “Hare re re amaye chhere de re de re” or “Purano shei diner kotha”! That does not of course make them qualified enough to celebrate Tagore’s birthday. For, most of them do not know that the man they revere or worship as God is someone who has been the most carefree of conservative norms, someone who has always tried to break free of the conventional! Closely read, Tagore is capable of shaking the Bengali middle class out of their traditionalist Elysium (read Pandemonium) of fixed notions of the ‘good’ and the ‘bad’, of ‘black’ and ‘white’, of ‘culture’ and ‘anarchy’. Whether a novel or a poem, a play or a song, an average Bengali has mostly enjoyed it at the surface level, without understanding its real import (of course, there are exceptions; or else, this article would not be written at all). Tagore has time and again questioned norms, problematized conventional notions of the ‘right’ and the ‘wrong’, and in a way, he is one of the first postmodernists to give voice to all the concerns that occupy today’s thinkers. His Ghare Baire voices the anxiety of the hypermasculine discourse of nationalism, while his Chokher Bali unleashes unabashedly the socially forbidden passions of a widow. How many Tagore fans know that the novelist was compelled to change the ending of Chokher Bali where his Binodini was not apologetic at all? And hello! How many of us go gaga over Chandalika? Most remembers it for its awesome songs, right? But isn’t this dance-drama one of the very first truly ‘subaltern’ stuffs? Chandalika’s woes have a lot to do with her subaltern position, and her painful realization that how her personal emotions are regulated by an overarching caste system. Chitrangada is a marvel! Everybody agrees to it! Because it has spectacular songs: ‘Bandhu kon alo laglo chokhe’, ‘Rodon bhara e basanta’, and many more! But isn’t the play dealing with the anxieties regarding sexuality? Chintrangada’s transformation from ‘kurupa’ to ‘surupa’ has lot to do with the construction of feminine sexuality as petite, delicate and soft! Does not the play remind us of the endlessly irritating beauty cream ads that promote physical beauty as the only powerful weapon? Tagore’s play problematizes brilliantly the set notions of female sexuality. Though it does not digress from its main source (i.e. The Mahabharata), it was, in a way, ahead of its time. I was in fact reminded of Chitrangada’s discomfiture while watching Kajol in Karan Johar’s postmodern candy-floss romance Kuch Kuch Hota Hai.

Now, such a list is endless. I am not writing a eulogy of Tagore. What I wish to point out is that let’s not be sentimental about this great poet. It’s high time we recognized that his greatness lies in breaking rules, not in constructing them. His works are sublime by the virtue of their aesthetic quality; but all of these works are also open to political reading. I’m saying nothing new. At least, some elitists would think so. But my target audience is the pitifully downmarket crowd at Rabindra Sadan and Jorasanko Thakurbari who celebrate Ponchishe Boishakh without knowing why they are doing so. They barely know that they are almost sinfully tying up the poet who has been iconoclastic in myriad ways in thousands of meaninglessly conservative knots. Tagore has been given a godly status; I have no objection to that. But I’m sure the poet would have himself objected to such a rendition of his image, as one who is out there, at a Height, the Other, who needs to be posited always against the Self. Even if we believe in the ‘death of the author’, the works that are available to us are enough evidence to break-free from any orthodoxy. True, by celebrating Tagore’s birthday, we do pay homage to that great creative principle that keeps the world going; but, there’s no need to associate notions of pseudo-sanctity with that.

'Milk': Democracy versus the Gay ‘Other’

Gus Van Sant’s Milk is another life-affirming film, and comes just in time when it is absolutely necessary to recall the heroic struggle of a community of men and women who are denied human rights, and are treated as if non-existent.
In fact, the film by recalling incidents of gay bashing, through video clips and newspaper cuttings, seems to retell another story of savages versus civilians. The methods of repression applied by the whites in treating the so-called savages are applied to put down gay people as well. The word ‘savage’ here has nothing to do with barbarians; rather, in postmodern discourse of otherness, the word ‘savage’ may well apply to all those who do not belong to the centre. In fact, the western notion of the savage as other, as belonging to some place else, (say, aboriginals, wolfboys, cannibals, etc.) is subverted by Milk, which shows that one need not look at the fringes or periphery (please note that these words are used with a nagging awareness of what these denote in postmodern academic parlance) to seek out the other, but otherness exists at the very centre, a centre like San Francisco, that threatens the very roots of American democracy. In other words, the 1970s Gay Movement that ceremoniously opens up the closet and encourages gay people to ‘come out’, unravels the brittleness of the very foundations of democracy so far celebrated as avowing the rights of the individual.
Harvey Milk (played by the incredibly brilliant Sean Penn), the unputdownable leader of the 1970s Gay Movement, very often connected with the straight crowd by the now famous opening line: “My name is Harvey Milk, and I want to recruit you.” This is a highly significant line, for Harvey’s mission was to recruit gay people into the democratic politics, by releasing them from the tortuous prison of a dominantly heterosexual society. It was extremely important to recognize and situate the cause of the gay people within the realm of democratic politics. And ironically enough, the vanguards of democracy claim that gayness is a sickness that can be medically cured, and if they cannot be cured of their strangeness, they have no right to come out, for they would have a negative effect on children and their very existence would threaten the very base of American economy, for a gay couple can never have children. Milk keeps on linking the trauma of the gay community with those of the immigrants in America, the ethnic minorities, thus calling into question the very notion of the melting pot. Milk is no melodrama, but an important politico-historical document which deals with a sensitive cause without sentimentalizing it. The film exhibits the right kind of emotions, always on the alert of not going over the top.
The most memorable moment is perhaps the one when a terribly tensed Milk gets a call from a gay teenager from Minnesota who tells him that ‘they’ are taking him away to fix him up next morning, for ‘they’ believe he is sick. Milk assures him that nothing is wrong with him, he is perfectly ‘normal’, and asks him to take a bus to San Francisco immediately. The camera zooms out gradually to reveal that the caller is actually sitting on a wheel chair; he can’t walk. The line gets disconnected. Months later, it is the same boy who calls up Milk to inform him of his triumph: proposition 6 has been repealed. He is now in Los Angeles, self-assured, and away from those who thought he needed treatment. That one phone call had changed his life forever…perhaps in this moment of glory, it is this boy who spells out for Milk in concrete terms the meaning of victory.
It deserves to be pointed out that the film does not get into the complexities of queer identities; such plethora of identities, designated in the acronym LGBTQ…, is beyond the scope of the film; for, it narrates the initial stages of the Gay Movement, its main concern being establishing the gay identity as ‘natural’. From there, the movement has come a long way today. Sean Penn’s Oscar-winning performance is one of its kinds; to say the least, it’s brilliant. Subtle, confident, and effortless, Penn could not have made Milk more believable. Emile Hirsch is loveable; so is James Franco. Unfortunately, in India, at least, Milk would be open to a niche audience only. Actually, the film should have been accessible to all and sundry to dismantle the Dostana joke. It’s a pity that our mainstream cinema has not yet matured enough to move beyond it.

Regressive progress: A curiously “Curious Case of Benjamin Button”

Sitting through David Fincher’s The Curious Case of Benjamin Button at times you can’t help wondering whether the filmmaker has intentions of equating the internal time of the narrative with the external time, for it seems remarkably slow-paced, every slice of Benjamin’s life almost literally making you suffer or enjoy with him. And curiously enough, you do not realise when the old, frail, almost half-human Benjamin grows down into the trendy, well-sculpted, jaw-droppingly handsome Brad Pitt, lovingly frolicking with an even lovelier Cate Blanchett. In other words, the reverse ageing of Benjamin has been so effortlessly naturalised that it does not seem to happen in celluloid but in real life. Please note that the credit of enacting Benjamin Button does not go to Brad Pitt alone: Peter Donald Badalamenti, Robert Towers and Tom Everett also have a good share in it. Kudos to the casting director (Laray Mayfield) and make-up artistes (Peter Abrahamson, Martin Astles, Jean Ann Black, and others)!
The film begins with the birth of Benjamin Button and that too at a historically momentous moment − the end of World War I. The famous clock with which the film opens ticks backwards, for its maker wishes a replay of the past to get back his son lost in the war. Benjamin’s birth at the moment of celebration of disaster is highly significant for his physical agedness at birth seems to signify the irredeemable loss of innocence. For a modernist writer like Fitzgerald, working under the influence of the likes of Bergson, time ticked off by the clock is not real time; but it’s the time of the mind that is all-important. Therefore, modernist tales were often non-linear, adhering to mental time than physical time. The Curious Case of Benjamin Button challenges the forward flow of time itself, reversing the very process of natural growth, for the two world wars had left such wounds and opened up such terribly unspeakable secrets of the human soul that children are born with knowledge so scary that they are born old.
The film leaves with an impression that we perpetually live under the illusion that we are always moving forward, and the past is always history. The first-half of the twentieth century threw people out of such complacent thinking. The two world wars charted a steady regress backwards to the barbaric ages. The Euro-American concept of civilization and progress received a serious blow, when the world wars confirmed that civilization and the ideologies that hold it together are but a garb, or a veneer, beneath which lurk the bestial instincts that defined human beings at the beginning of times. Benjamin’s progress from birth to death, from physical adulthood to physical childhood, acts as a metaphor to the regressive progression of the world.
Yet in spite of such depressing realizations the film dawns upon us, it throbs with a life-force necessary to surmount all odds and live life on its own terms. Benjamin’s sense of un-belonging is lifelong, for he is perhaps never at ease with the soul inside him and the changes the world outside undergoes. Daisy’s love for him is just the kind of love one needs to survive. On the other hand, Daisy sees herself slipping from a friend to a wife to a mother to Benjamin. And she plays each role with perfect womanly instincts. Cate Blanchett is simply brilliant, both as a vivacious ballet dancer as well as the ageing wife of a husband gradually progressing towards childhood. Benjamin’s memory loss as he grows into a child is natural; but it also points towards the world dissociating itself from the knowledge of the right kind that is required to sustain civilization.

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button is a must watch, and definitely not with the mindset of finding out whether it is better than Slumdog Millionaire. A comparison does not stand; the films are essentially different and there’s no need to mourn for The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. For Slumdog is definitely no less deserving.

Billu Barber’s ‘atyachar’: Shah Rukh at its narcissistic worst, ‘incidentally’!

Billu Barber, to make an understatement, is a bad film with a SICK climax. The ‘Barber’ was clipped from the title for the people of the same profession (read politicians) objected to it, for they found it insulting. What was so discourteous to name a profession is beyond my understanding, but our 'Lotos-eating' politicians are always in the look-out for ‘sensitive’ issues (read vote-bank saving agendas) which nonetheless unveil the potential hypocrisy that define them all. In any case, if ‘Barber’ was dropped, it could have been very well substituted by ‘barbaric’, an adjective that describes not Billu, but Shah Rukh Khan, the narcissistic producer of the film, who has ended up endorsing an ode to himself, rather than making a movie. His biggest mistake was perhaps to cast Irrfan Khan in the lead role, for it is Irrfan’s presence which ‘incidentally’ by contrast highlights in vivid details Shah Rukh’s shortcomings as an actor. Even Priyadarshan could not save the film! He strings up a series of predictable comic sequences which ‘incidentally’ have a tragic impact on the viewers, and even veteran actors like Rajpal Yadav and Asrani get on your nerves with banal lines and predictable reflex actions.
Budbuda, an unknown village in one of the remotest corners of the country, sees its biggest ever carnival when Sahir Khan comes to shoot his technological thriller. Billu, the barber, gains popularity overnight as Khan’s childhood friend. The underdog rises in prestige much to his own embarrassment, for he believes he would not be able to keep the requests of his neighbours who want to get personal with the megastar through his contact. It is revealed later in the film that Sahir Khan was born and brought up in the village, before he migrated to Mumbai. Isn’t it strange that with the media flashing every single detail of a star’s life at the drop of a hat, the villagers did not know that Khan belonged to Budbuda only? Nobody raises that question, unfortunately.
Many other things about this film are unfortunate indeed. Is Shah Rukh suffering from some strange inferiority complex that he had to celebrate himself so blatantly, so as to reassure himself that his throne is still intact? Budbuda’s going berserk over his arrival is realistic; no two ways about that. It could have happened at the arrival of any star. But, the level of madness the villagers show is completely unbelievable. Only Billu keeps his cool in the midst of such midsummer madness, and his detached participation in the euphoria is perhaps the only credible thing in this movie.
Badly scripted, Billu becomes intolerably shoddier every time the ageing Shah Rukh breaks into unmusically boring item numbers with the divas, none of whom leave any lasting impression. Roping in Deepika, Priyanka and Kareena is another way of proving to the world that the best in the industry are sycophantically at SRK’s beck and call. Too much of SRK is what makes Billu so hideous! His cutting irony in “The film industry is like a family and the actors are like brothers” (recall his falling out with the other two leading Khans and his growing insecurity with Akshaye Kumar mounting the ladder of success too fast) leaves him hilariously hateful.
The film ends with the most awful climax ever seen in the last few decades. It is literally ‘emotional atyachar’. You feel like banging your head against the wall or whatever solid object is in the vicinity for the climax leaves you in the climax of your painful realization that you could not have wasted your money in a worse way. I guess SRK has also realized that his romantic hero image is now history, and it’s time he made way for the Youngistan crowd. The termination of his Pepsi contract bears testimony to the truth which SRK refuses to admit.

The long and short of it all is that avoid Billu, for good. O! By the way, do not forget to notice Lara Dutta’s blouses…which village tailor is so fashionably conscious, I wonder?

Kaustav's Arden: It is so Bollywoodish after all: Slumdog Millionaire, British rearing of an Indian heart

Kaustav's Arden: It is so Bollywoodish after all: Slumdog Millionaire, British rearing of an Indian heart

It is so Bollywoodish after all: Slumdog Millionaire, British rearing of an Indian heart

One point of contention which seems to drive critics and commentators berserk at the present moment is how Indian is Slumdog Millionaire. Based on Swarup’s novel Q & A, Slumdog is not really India seen through the British eye as one critic chose to analyze it in a recent television talk show. It is India as India is. It is purely Bollywoodish, and could have been made by an Anurag Kashyap, a Dibakar Banerjee, an Ashutosh Gowarikar, an Abhishek Kapoor, a Madhur Bhandarkar, or a Ram Gopal Varma in his more sensible days! It’s difficult to make out the difference.
Slumdog is at one level a postmodern bildungsroman; at another level it’s a docu-fiction on Mumbai slum life and its infamous underbelly (one is unavoidably reminded of Salaam Bombay, Dharavi and Traffic Signal); but it’s above all a love story, a true Bollywood love story. Interestingly, the narrative is built on a number of familiar tropes, tropes Indians are so well-acquainted with that they fail to realise that the maker is British.
Jamal Malik participates in Who Wants to Be a Millionaire not to win money, but to win back his lost childhood sweetheart Latika. The answer to every single question asked on the show is coincidentally related to some incident or the other of Jamal’s life. The narrative moves seamlessly between the past and the present, taking us through spine-chilling slices of Jamal’s life whereby we experience the brutality of the Bombay riots of 1992-1993, the awfully wicked beggarmasters of the city, as well as some light-hearted moments of Jamal’s meeting with Latika on a rainy night and his incredible obsession with Mr. Bachchan! As the story progresses, the film employs one familiar trope after the other: the good brother versus the bad brother with a big heart (recall Dewaar), the same brothers estranged in childhood to be reunited again (recall Amar Akbar Anthony, Yaadon Ki Baraat, etc), childhood lovers separated by a stroke of bad luck (recall Parinda), discovery of the lost lover in a brothel (recall Ram Lakhan, where Anil Kapoor taken captive by the villains returns to find his childhood beloved Madhuri Dixit dancing to the tunes of ‘Bekadar, bekhabar, bewafa, balmaa’, and many other films), taking revenge on the vicious villain (several 1970s Hindi films have sufficiently invulnerable heroes returning to avenge the wrongs done to them in their childhood, when they were helpless and powerless), two brothers falling for the same girl (There’s no need to provide an example of an older Hindi film here; there are far too many, and exhaustively so), and so on and so forth. However, unlike the 70s Hindi films, Slumdog does not see the world in black and white. It problematizes the constructs of goodness and badness, and leaves several loose ends, not ensuring a really happy ending. Apparently, the film ends happily, but it does not have a proper closure.
The last few moments of the film deserve special attention. The last question asked is: “Who is the third musketeer in Alexander Dumas’ novel The Three Musketeers?” Ironically, Jamal was introduced to the names of the two musketeers in school, but he did not know the name of the third one. He is left with one lifeline: Phone-a-friend. Jamal dials his brother’s number, the only number he has. But it is Latika who had run away from her captor who picks up the phone. Jamal’s mission is fulfilled. He had come on the show so that Latika saw him. He does not care anymore whether he wins or loses. He casually selects A, and hits on the correct the answer. Pages can be written on this one moment of the film.
It’s difficult to explain rationally how Jamal hits on the right answer! Like several romantic Hindi films, the director places the heart above the head. The power of real love is such it can help surmount the most redoubtable problems. We have seen this happening in myriad Hindi films; in fact, an Indian audience has time and again revelled in the victory of the heart over the head, and knows that in a love story Reason is secondary to Emotion. Indian popular culture, celebrating the nation and ideas of Indian nationalism, since the days of the struggle for freedom, has always given more importance to emotions than reasons. This was in consonance with the nationalist idea of using the weapon of emotion against the overwhelming importance given to reason by the western Enlightenment project. This was a method of resistance to cultural colonization. A re-invoking of the same trope in Slumdog is very significant, for in the era of globalization, when the drive to homogenize the world is soaring, every nation is anxious to construct its own ‘difference’ from the others. Here again, celebration of romantic love as capable of making possible the impossible is highly remarkable. In this sense Slumdog is truly Indian. Wishing a very happy ending to Slumdog at the Oscars this year…!

Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi: Death of the Bollywood Romantic Hero?

Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi is no path-breaking venture. Neither is it a blockbuster. Yet it is of immense interest to those who eat and sleep Bollywood. It is not simply about a simple middle class man’s desperate attempt to make his bubbly wife fall in love with him. It is actually an attempt at deconstructing the image of the Bollywood romantic hero constructed through the past five decades. The super-dynamic hero such as Raj of Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jaayenge or Rahul of Dil to Pagal Hai has been so far an object of desire. I consciously use the word “object”; for a human being cannot have all the qualities he possesses. Even the epics could not create such a character; so why Draupadi had to marry five men. The qualities she asked for in a husband could not possibly converge in one man. Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi is the story of a human being who endeavours to appropriate the qualities of that “object” to woo his wife who says that she would never be able to love him, and ends up proving to himself and to his wife that true love perhaps has no connection with an outwardly romantic “image”. Surinder is Raj and Raj is Surinder; both sides of the same coin, literally. The conflict between the two selves of the protagonist is actually a conflict between reality and illusion. For Tani, Surinder is a reality which she shies away from; on the other hand, Raj is an apparent reality of the image of several Bollywood heroes she has so far worshipped, and therefore highly desirable. However, it is Surinder she finally falls in love with. The film becomes her bildungsroman whereby she rediscovers her husband and falls in love with him, him who she thought she would never be able to love. Her refusal to elope with Raj underlines her maturing into a woman who learns to separate true love from the filmy paraphernalia surrounding it. Consequently, the unfashionable middle class man who used to envy the Bollywood hero and feel belittled by his unmatchable zing and irresistible sex appeal, breathes a sigh of relief. For, the SRK who had created this hero now deconstructs the same. The film demands a willing suspension of disbelief; but such suspension is worthwhile. The film would remind of the Hrishikesh Mukherjee blockbuster Golmaal; but thematically it is closer to another SRK flick Paheli. And most interestingly, the film also marks a journey of Aditya Chopra, the filmmaker: he seems to engage in dialogue with the Yash Raj films released so far, and his new hero Surinder seems disruptive in the light of the other Chopra films. This disruptive hero however would give Bollywood commercial cinema a new mileage, whereby it might abandon its self-constructed romantic realm to live closer to reality!

Why Label Terrorism?

The word “terrorist”, like the word “alien”, has come to represent a special category: and in labelling terrorists as terrorists, we tend to alienate them from the human community. They are “they” as against “us”, the “normal” human beings. This they/us binary is the sole cause behind the catastrophic terror attacks that took so many innocent lives in Mumbai. More dangerously, these terrorists again are identified as having particular religious affiliations! Incidentally, all the attackers have been found to belong to the Muslim community, a revelation that catapulted the media into labelling the attack on Mumbai as another example of Muslim terrorism, engineered by the infamous LeT. There is no harm in disclosing correct information to the public; but what is objectionable is the relentless labelling of this terror attack as Muslim. It is a current trend in the media to associate religion with violence. True, the Hindutva pogroms in Mumbai and Godhra have left deep sores in the soul of the subcontinent; but which Hindu script, which Hindu God teaches violence? The ideology of Hindutva is a new ideology which has nothing to do with traditional Hinduism, which is spectacularly tolerant. So, when the media identifies a Sadhvi Pragya as the new emerging face of Hindu militancy, it unwittingly paves path for other kinds of militancy in the name of religion. How fair is it to label a particular form of militancy as belonging to a particular religious community? If Sadhvi Pragya is the mastermind behind the Malegaon blasts in September 2008, it is not her religion which taught her to kill 31 innocent people. Similarly, if Muslim terrorists had infiltrated into the Taj Hotel and took several lives, it is not their religion which pleaded with them to do so! Therefore, what is the point in labelling a particular form of violence as Muslim, Hindu and Christian? Even if the offenders claim that they are indulging in riots, pogroms and terror attacks in the name of religion, it must be kept in mind there is no religion, neither Hindu nor Muslim, which endorses such inhuman acts. There is a particular group of people who are incidentally Hindu or incidentally Muslim who have a predilection to proclaim their supremacy in this world, at any expense whatsoever. Terror attacks or riots are nothing but power pageants in which innocent people are butchered. And since we never stop dissociating religion from these pogroms or terror attacks, all efforts to unite fall apart. If LeT incidentally belongs to Pakistan, there is no point in hating the country as a whole. If a saffron-clad group plans organized violence against people of the Muslim community, there is no point in thinking that all of India is hell-bent on wiping out the Muslims. Since the real originators of violence are never identified properly, and even if they are, their religious allegiance is so conspicuously highlighted, that anger of the common mass is directed towards a religious community as a whole or a country as a whole. This causes more alienation and fragmentation and of course, more violence. For how long would we continue to believe in divide and rule? It is not a Hindu that is a Muslim is sceptical of and vice-versa; it is a constructed image of a Hindu or a constructed image of a Muslim which is the source of fear. Let’s dissociate religion from terrorism once and forever!

Kaustav's Arden: Mainstreaming the Gay? : The old-new romantic comedy of "Dostana"

Kaustav's Arden: Mainstreaming the Gay? : The old-new romantic comedy of "Dostana"

Mainstreaming the Gay? : The old-new romantic comedy of "Dostana"

Has the angelic Karan Johar really shown guts to overcome fear to tread forbidden zones? This was one thought that continued to plague me until I really got to watch his Dostana. I was apprehensive that it might turn out to be another sexist take on gayness that Bollywood very often than not notoriously indulge in. Well, there was a My Brother Nikhil which is still date a nonpareil example of a gay-themed film ever made in India. But, then again, it was targeted at a niche audience, and was not definitely mainstream. Almost every masala flick has till date treated the idea of being gay as immoral, and most importantly un-Indian. In fact, heterosexuality as ‘normal’ has been very often used as a tool to combat homosexuality as belonging to the Other, a degenerate western culture. Even Kal Ho Na Ho with Kanta Ben as the prototype homophobic had left gayness at the periphery. However, there was at least a recognition of the existence of a sexual identity other than the heterosexual, and that the latter is not a norm. Dostana, thankfully, does not carry forward the Kal Ho Na Ho joke. I would not say that the film is a quantum leap from what Kal Ho Na Ho was, but it has certainly taken the gay issue a few miles ahead in its treatment. Dostana is not as smart as The Bird Cage or Brokeback Mountain, but it may be treated as prelude to more progressive films that may be in the pipeline. The anxiety regarding gayness is very much palpable, but the resistance to it seemed to have been allayed to a remarkable extent.
Kirron Kher is aghast on discovering his son’s alleged gayness and comes running all the way to Miami to witness the most hilarious of scenes with Abhishek Bachchan and the ‘visibly’ gay Boman Irani in a sexy “Beedi jalayee le” act at Priyanka Chopra’s apartment. The “Ma ka ladla bigar gaya” (“Bigaad jana” can be roughly translated into English as “becoming corrupt”: from Kirron’s perspective being gay is some kind of moral degeneration that needs to be purged; similar to a popular feeling that being gay is a disease that can be cured) number that follows shows Kirron shocked and shattered on experiencing by-chance apparently sexually intimate moments between Abhishek and John Abraham. Her heart-rending lamentation fills the screen and she even goes to the extent of trying jaadu-tona to exorcise the gay-ghost that has taken possession of her son. Kirron’s anxiety draws quite a few laughs, but the film does not seem clear on its standpoint…what are we laughing at? First, we, as audience, have superior knowledge that John and Abhishek are only pretending to be gay. Now, it is a rule of comedy that by attributing superior knowledge to its audience, it creates situations that appear funny. Again, the same situations that make us laugh also make us think what exactly we are laughing at. What do we exactly do in Dostana? Are we laughing at Kirron’s anxiety? Or are we laughing at the John-Abhishek gay act which, because, we know it is put up, keeps us perpetually in a relieved state of mind? Does this relieved state of mind (the feeling that well, they are just pretending and are not really gay, which could be a real cause of anxiety) help us laugh through? Do we accept Boman Irani as normal? Or do we laugh at his overt effeminacy and his readily falling prey to Abhishek’s charms? And the immigration officer? He too is gay, and says that he would henceforth keep an eye on John. Shall we say that all gay people are that promiscuous? That they fall for anyone and everyone who cross their way? Or is it a commentary on the nature of the gay community that because there are no social laws binding them, they can be liberally licentious? What is it, after all? At the expense of being naïve, shall we say that because homosexual urges are fiercely suppressed, and still treated as ‘abnormal’, sexual licentiousness amongst gay people is quite ‘normal’? But what is the film’s take on that? It has left both Boman and the immigration officer as butts of ridicule! Or would Karan and Tarun Mansukhani would defend themselves by saying that Boman and the immigration officer are just a type; all gays are not like that! But, in any form of narrative (whether textual or cinematic), drawing two characters in the same line points towards universalization. Dostana has been able to raise a number of issues of this kind, and has left them open.
Yet, Dostana steers safely past severe criticism, for in the very next sequence it goes to the extent of flexing the formula of the age-old Bollywood romantic comedy to accommodate gay love. Priyanka Chopra, the least homophobic of the cast, plays the moderator. In a famously well-known romantic comedy sequence, Priyanka convinces Kirron into accepting her son’s sexual orientation for the sake of his happiness. This scene recalls numerous other films where strong patriarchal resistance to a romantic union is softened through such emotional dialogues. Nowhere does Priyanka sound artificial and for a while the film seems to suspend its light mood and turn serious. Kirron relents, but this time the audience surely does not laugh. For, Priyanka’s rationalization of the supposed relationship between Abhishek and John has no comic undertones. But what follows is hilarious. Kirron accepts John (she does not know as son-in-law or a daughter-in-law), but she accepts her in the most melodramatic filmy way one can imagine of. She performs all the rites of welcoming a new bride to the family with a straight face, much to the exasperation of Abhishek who had never anticipated such a twist in the tale. John is totally cool and Priyanka revels in the triumph of having been able to convert Kirron. Both Priyanka and her aunt Sushmita Mukherjee accept the union as the most natural thing that could have ever happened. This was however anticipated by their demand of a narration of how Abhishek and John had fallen in love. The comically cooked up melodramatic story, again drawn on the lines of familiar Bollywood romances, leaves Priyanka in tears. And, please note, that Priyanka is genuinely moved! It is here that Dostana turns out to be more accepting than Kal Ho Na Ho. In spite of all the issues discussed above, Dostana does try to mainstream gay love by appropriating the formula of the romantic comedy. This mainstreaming was necessary. Since Bollywood has a major role to play in moulding popular psyche, Dostana’s attempt at bringing gayness into the broad sunlight and sheltering it in a Sindhi household would surely work positively.
Returning to the basic premise, we see that this very idea of pretending to be gay occurs to Abhishek when both he and John fail to find a house in Miami. The pretension of being gay finally wins them a home. In this the film speaks loads about the collapse of fixed sexual categories due to globalization. Free movement across the globe has allowed people to come out of the closet and assert their sexual orientation in public. Though in admission forms, passports, or certificates, gender identity is only recognized, these days, online community websites, such as Orkut, clearly ask its subscribers to tick off their sexual identities – gay, straight or bisexual. That the recognition of a sexual identity is necessary besides a gender identity has been urged on by Dostana. The separate queues for gay couples, straight couples or singles at the Miami immigration office underline this. Given the basic premise of the story, Dostana could not have been set in India. Outside the country, gayness is shown to be accepted, and interestingly, the people who do so come of conservative Punjabi or Sindhi families which have emigrated from the country. Could a story like Dostana be ever set in India itself? Or shall we say you can conveniently afford to be gay somewhere out there, but not in India? Dostana could have been really iconoclastic had it been set in the country. Again, the film in a subtle way becomes a commentary on the anxiety of the diasporic communities. In order to belong, one may need to forego his/her sexual identity. The anxiety and high-handedness with which the host country often treats the immigrants is accentuated by John and Abhishek’s becoming officially gay.
Finally, Dostana does win kudos for having a unisex camera. Laura Mulvey would definitely applaud Ayanank Bose for this. The camera gives equal space to the male and the female body and lovingly caresses both. The sexual orientation of the voyeur (read viewer) has not been, thankfully, taken for granted as “heterosexual male”. While John’s perfectly chiselled body and naughty inner wear moments leave you breathless, Priyanka’s vivacity supported by perfectly designed outfits catalyse the barometer into rising really high. John had never looked so irresistibly hot and Priyanka till date seemed to have never discovered her innocently sexy self! And yes, Abhishek also has his share in inspiring gay fantasy with his highly sensitive performance, not deterred by his bulging tummy.
Mind you, Dostana is open-ended. Priyanka asks the couple that whether there was not even a single moment when they had actually felt something for each other. Neither of the boys replies but goes different ways, leaving the audience wondering as to what the real answer could be.

Kaustav's Arden: The Last Lear: Has Rituparno Lost His “Art to Enchant”?

Kaustav's Arden: The Last Lear: Has Rituparno Lost His “Art to Enchant”?

The Last Lear: Has Rituparno Lost His “Art to Enchant”?

Suit the action to the word, the word to the action,
With this special observance, that you o’er step not the modesty of
Nature. For anything so o’erdone is from the purpose of
playing, whose end, both at first and now, was and is to
hold as ‘twere the mirror up to nature…

Generally, Rituparno Ghosh impresses by strictly adhering to Hamlet’s advice to the first player. The Last Lear is no exception, at least apparently. Yet, the story of bringing out an old stage actor out of his cloister required a lot more passion. One keeps on wondering what Ghosh’s real aim is. Is it to prove to the world that he can cast Amitabh Bachchan in a hatke role? Is Harry’s characterization pre-conditioned by the fact that Bachchan would play it? So, does Bachchan play Harry or does Harry play Bachchan?

Harry, after quitting stage, confines himself to an outwardly dilapidated house, where in a well-furnished room, he seems to exist in the imagined grandeur of a Shakespearean stage. Clothed in long-flowing robes, revelling in the opulence of Shakespeare’s poetry, Harry with his baritone voice and King Lear/Prospero-like looks seems not to have outgrown the stage characters he had been passionately playing all these years. Harry could have been a more believable character had the place not been Kolkata. How feasible is it for Harry to have portrayed one Shakespearean character after another on some stage of Kolkata in the 60s and 70s, and that too in English? Who were his audience? If Harry happened to be an immensely successful Shakespearean actor, did Kolkata really have a credible audience for English plays of the Elizabethan age in the 60s and 70s? This is a major anomaly which is not clarified in the film. Utpal Dutt is the primary influence behind the film; but weren’t his plays predominantly in Bengali? Ghosh should have been more careful. Or else, he should have made it clear whether Harry was a popular actor or was a good actor who had never been recognized by the populace. The impression he gives, of course, is that Harry was a popular actor who had left the stage when he was at the pinnacle of success, all of a sudden. One more thing which immensely perturbs us is the reason behind Harry’s quitting the stage. Capricious as he is, Harry could have a more eccentric reason of not returning to the stage than a flimsy reason like someone saying “something bad” about his live-in partner.

When Siddharth Kumar approaches Harry for the role of a clown, he immediately connects with him by responding unwittingly to one of his whimsicalities. He happens to call on Harry by ringing the assortment of broken tin containers acting as a bell. To Harry’s pleasant surprise Siddharth also happens to recognize the Shakespearean quote he passionately delivers at the entrance. Harry welcomes him upstairs and what follows is a long conversation on the differences between the two performing arts — cinema and theatre. But unfortunately the conflict does not take a proper shape and seems to find a resolution with that one conversation. Hardly any such conflict arises when they actually work. Harry is given the role of a circus clown, which is definitely different from the clowns of Shakespeare. So, do we have to believe that no argument arose between the new age director and the old theatre personality immersed in Shakespearean plays in the process of filming the movie? Is it that easy to get an erratic theatre actor conform to the method of film-acting which is presumably more restrained and subdued? Some arguments did arise about trivial things like the real time of the shoot and the time mentioned in the script which, in a way, seemed ridiculous. It was unnecessary to point out that Hamlet used to begin in broad daylight in England, though the opening scene starts at midnight. Harry is intelligent enough to understand that time on screen can be well manipulated by advance cameras and manoeuvring of the lights. The focus of the argument should have been somewhere else. However, it’s understandable that given his dedication to acting, Harry vehemently objects to taking a body-double even for the riskiest of scenes. But somehow, the film fails to impress as Bachchan does not really outgrow his image of a megastar. His refusal to take a body-double seems to have been inspired by the image of Bachchan, the hero. Therefore, the audience fails to live through the pains of an actor whose art is gradually losing its relevance. Black was bad; but The Last Lear is worse. I deliberately brought in the comparison; for Ghosh seemed too preoccupied with showing Bhansali that he could have made Bachchan “act” better. And true, Bachchan does “act” here; he does not “behave”. And it is here that the film loses the fine Rituparno Ghosh touch.

And then there is an awful subplot of the three women bonding: Shabnam, Bandana and Ivy come together on a Diwali night and happen to find a confidant in each other. But alas! None of the characters are well-developed and therefore the audience fail to sympathize with them. Both Shabnam and Ivy have clichéd love stories to tell and the problems discussed have been so often repeated in Ghosh’s films that they simply get on the nerves. Men are always so very un-understanding types in Rituparno Ghosh films, and women keep on complaining. How very boring! And what the audience do not simple get of hang of is why Harry rails against some veteran stage director’s (Neeraj Patel) homosexuality. How stupid of him to call Neeraj Patel a “she” because of his homosexuality! How does a man’s love for another man change his gender? Ghosh must be aware of this; but he does not really establish why Patel’s homosexuality disturbs Harry so much. Then what was the purpose of giving the audience a glimpse of Harry’s homophobia? Or, did Harry find Patel’s practice of sleeping with different men an immoral practice? Would he have been fine if Patel had one steady relationship? What is it, damn it?

The Last Lear has amazing sets, astounding cinematography and some touching moments, such as Harry’s going down the stairs without his glasses. Arjun Rampal’s intense acting is something to watch out for; but Shefali Shah’s role, as she claims, is certainly not the best till date. Preity Zinta is not much different from what she is usually good at doing. Jisshu Sengupta is drab and Prasenjit Chatterjee is irritatingly drabber. I didn’t know he can’t speak English. For, Ghosh has got his voice dubbed. On the whole, the film fails to impress. Actually no one had expected so much “Sound and fury” that was associated with the making and release of the film would so definitively and literally end up “signifying nothing”.

Kaustav's Arden: Humane Images of Human Emotions: How Rituparno Ghosh Tells Our Tales

Kaustav's Arden: Humane Images of Human Emotions: How Rituparno Ghosh Tells Our Tales

Kaustav's Arden: Kalpurush: Mystifying memories and the present-day world

Kaustav's Arden: Kalpurush: Mystifying memories and the present-day world

Family, By Chance: Recreating a Single Community across Differences in Chalo-Let’s Go

Ramchandra Guha’s much celebrated book "India After Gandhi" that attempts to retell the history of the world’s largest democracy begins with extensive and insightful recapitulation of views on India by its former colonisers. Of these, Sir John Strachey’s Cambridge lectures later collected in a volume, unostentatiously titled "India", are of particular significance; for, Strachey’s prediction of the future of democracy in India has come true. Interestingly, Strachey sees India as a composition of countries, not as a single nation. No Indian nation ever existed in the past, nor would one emerge in the future. Strachey holds that “national sympathies may arise in particular Indian countries”, but “they should never extend to India generally, that men of the Punjab, Bengal, the North-western Provinces, and Madras, should ever feel that they belong to one Indian nation, is impossible. You might with as much reason and probability look forward to a time when a single nation will have taken the place of various nations of Europe.” Again, Winston Churchill in a speech delivered in London in December 1930, declared that if the British left India, then “an army of white janissaries, officered if necessary from Germany, will be hired to secure the armed ascendancy of the Hindus.” Ironically, at that time, the likes of Nehru were dreaming of a secular democratic India. That both Strachey and Churchill were absolutely correct has been proved many times over. A democracy called India has existed theoretically or constitutionally, but the reality is at variance with the idea. The recent controversy raging in the hills over the possible creation of Gorkhaland, separated from West Bengal is a case in point. Several other examples can also be cited from history: beginning with the nightmarish Partition, the Indian state has seen itself breaking up along linguistic borders, suffering in the darkness of the Emergency, and combating constantly recurring communal violence. The unspeakable violence unleashed by the Hindus on the Sikhs, following the assassination of Mrs. Gandhi, the demolition of Babri Mashjid, followed by the most brutal Hindu-Muslim riots of all times, the shameful Godhra incident — all of these posed serious and almost fatal threats to the democracy. The four axes of conflict — caste, religion, class and language — operating singly and in tandem only promise a divided India, impossible to be united.
Indian popular culture, mostly cinema, has more often than not stuck to the representation of India that gives a constitutionally approved picture of the nation. While addressing the differences that exist between castes, religions, classes and linguistic groups, Indian films end in the “they lived happily ever after” syndrome, eradicating differences and reinstating the democratic state. The dream of a democratic nation has been, more or less, sustained in the fictional world of mainstream cinema. And to address the diversity of the country, filmmakers have often chosen the journey motif as the prime movers of their plots: the train or the bus, the modern means of transport, has more often than not provided a perfect setting for these films. The train or the bus can be easily transformed into the microcosm of the Indian nation, a site harbouring temporarily people from different walks of life. These films celebrate plurality and differences, mostly giving the impression of a possibility of uniting diverse individuals, of creating a united India.
From "Bombay to Goa" to "Chalo-Let’s Go", the same trope — a group of people meeting each other on a journey and forming an accidental family — has been used. In fact, in the last few years, this particular genre of films has flourished considerably. The most celebrated of these films is Aparna Sen’s "Mr. & Mrs. Iyer", a poignant commentary on communal violence and human bondage. Other lesser known films are "Jungle", "Honeymoon Travels", "Just Married", etc. The necessity of recreating the community is felt more intensely with increasing individualization, owing to globalization and rapid growth of urban culture. Parents are estranged from their children, spouses hardly meet, and the neighbourhood has become more alien than the land across the seas. Real communities are being speedily replaced by cyber communities; communal bonding has been redefined in terms of exchanging electronic mails or sending Archie’s Cards. Under such circumstances, films such as "Chalo-Let’s Go" appeal to everybody.
Anjan Dutta’s "Bong Connection" and "Bow Barracks Forever" had already created the grounds for "Chalo". Both these films dealt with much-debated issues of diasporic identities, the real homeland, marginalization, minority culture and stuff. Chalo is a return to the more familiar Bengali activity of “beratey jawa” (going for an outing). The film is in tune with the new venture of the Indian government of marketing “Incredible India” — the tourism project. Bengalis are, in any case, well-known for their wanderlust. With the mushrooming of travel and tourism agencies in every nook and corner of the city, this age-old wanderlust has found an easy and affordable outlet. The film revolves around such a travel agency “Ghoroa” run by four amateur and terribly inexperienced men — Ashim (Saswata), Sanjay (Parambrata), Shekhar (Ritwick) and Hari (Rudraneel). Ashim has given up on his medical profession, Sanjay has left his promising job of a journalist, and Sekhar has sworn not to see his father’s face, a well-to-do businessman of North Calcutta. Hari has no illustrious past, apart from having a long history of being ditched in love. The foursome takes a group of Bengali tourists to North Bengal — a man-watching detective novelist, a Chemistry professor all to ready to berate the Bengali ‘jati’, an NRI doctor and his wife having the bizarre ability of telling people’s future by holding their hands during special moments, a librarian with a heart of gold and his irritated and peevish wife, a middle-aged Casanova and his young arm-candy, and a lovelorn woman who accidentally becomes a part of the group. A sweet love triangle is created between this woman, Hari and Sanjay, occasioning many a humorous situation capable of drawing spontaneous laughs from the audience.
The narrative moves slowly with the inexperienced travel agents being bombarded with complaints and whinges from the tourists. In this drama of entangled lives, humour is the prime mover. The dislocated narrative moving between past, present and future has a special appeal. The camera affectionately captures the Elysium beauty of North Bengal, the natural beauty providing a contrasting backdrop to the human problems, petty and limiting.
The film strives to recreate a community, but here too democracy is sacrificed to selfish needs. Everybody fights for their rights — the right kind of room, the right kind of seat, the right kind of breakfast, etc. While some get it, others don’t. The detective points out that some of the tourists who are getting what they want in spite of the difficulties are those who are bribing the agents. The petty politics of the state seems to be repeated here. One is reminded how handsomely one has to bribe an agent for an emergency cooking gas connection, for admission in a good school, or even for a telephone connection. Perhaps, democracy has so severely suffered and proved to be such a big failure that even the fictional world can no longer afford to give an illusion that it exists. We are a long way off from the 1970s when the hopes were still alive. In the 21st century, the realization that democracy is only an ideal has become more intense and persuasive.
Bidipta Chakraborty and Kaushik Ganguly make the most interesting couple, and perhaps the most familiar of characters. Kaushik’s goodness and his unnaturally unassuming nature irritate Bidipta who never lets go a single opportunity of rebuking him. Kaushik never complains and tries in his own clumsy way to keep her happy. Open-minded and jovial, Kaushik is blissfully nonchalant to the material needs of life, much to Bidipta’s exasperation. She repents that she had unthinkingly agreed to the match as some holy man had assured her that a prince was coming into her life. She confides to Koneenica who reminds her of the frog-prince. Interestingly, look-wise too Kaushik is far from princely. And then one evening, as Kaushik sits in the mall and sings in “full-throated ease” the Tagore verse “Achhe dukkho, achhe mrityu”, Bidipta all of a sudden remembers the story of the frog-prince. She sits beside him, and asks him to hold her hand.
The intertext of the film is, as evident to any conscious viewer, is Ray’s classic Kanchenjungha. Here however, several loose ends remain. Everything is not righted in the end. The tourism business proves to be a failure. Shekhar goes back as his father dies of a massive heart attack, and later becomes a singer. Ashim renounces the material world to find his true calling in looking after the destitute at a Christian home in the hills. Hari gets married to that lovelorn woman visibly demoralising Sanjay, and lives through the wind and the rain. Sanjay is on the look for a proper break as a filmmaker. And the story that he tells as the narrator is a rough draft of the screenplay he is presently writing.
"Chalo-Let’s Go" is not a great film. But it does have the power to pull upper middle class Bengali film audience back to the theatres. More of these films should be made, so that the monsters of Bengali cinema, the likes of Swapan Saha and Haranath Chakraborty cannot push the industry towards the deeper end of perdition.

Humane Images of Human Emotions: How Rituparno Ghosh Tells Our Tales

Part One: Unishe April

1995: Satellite channels and global network were beginning to make a home in middle-class households, though the revolution in the entertainment world that was to come in the new millennium was still beyond the imagination of the common man. The filmy khabar had not yet made its way to the headlines of news channels, and was still supplementary stuff. Yet news of Unishe April (April 19th) winning a few important national awards, amongst Best Film and Best Actor (Female), was quite a buzz in the town. Nobody knew who this Rituparno Ghosh was. However, the unusual title signalled a different film.
Films were still a strict “no, no” in our family. The latter looked upon films as low art, and the very act of watching them, if not blasphemous, certainly disparaging. I am a born film-buff, the ‘different’ thinker in an otherwise traditional and orthodox Bengali middle-class family. My family have always appreciated watching sports as a favourable pastime, while I have never been able to show them reason as to why both games and films are not really different from each other, both being different forms of ‘play’. There is essentially no difference between cheering Sachin Tendulkar or Shah Rukh Khan, both being entertainers (read ‘players’) in their own right. My family refused to understand. Under such circumstances cajoling my parents to take me for a movie was a Herculean task. But I was dying to watch the film.
In those days (Though I am not talking of prehistoric times, the revolution that has occurred in the sphere of entertainment was completely unforeseen even 10 years back; therefore, in that sense, the mid-1990s may be referred to as ‘those days’, lost days of innocence.), there was no way in which we could know anything about a film before its release. As I said earlier Indian media had not yet grown so proactively crazy about collecting news about films at that time. That Om Shanti Om was a potential hit and Sawaariya was to doze off at the box-office were known to the world within half-an-hour after the first shows of the two movies were over, thanks to the hyperactive news channels. In 1995, we had to wait for a week or even more to get a review of a film. But my enthusiasm for Unishe April was triggered off by an interview of Rituparno Ghosh that was aired on HMV-FM. Listening to Ghosh, I discovered I had never heard a man speak so sensitively or even for that matter so informally in a public space. Ghosh’s mild voice, his effeminate accents, punctuated remarkably the thoughts he shared. I found myself meeting a very different man. He was not like the other filmmakers. I had heard Satyajit Ray and Mrinal Sen before, and was awed by their wisdom. But I never struck a chord with them. Rituparno’s emotionally charged talk (not verging on the sentimental, mind you) almost seduced me into admiring him. The interview revealed that Unishe April was not his first film. He had stepped into the industry, almost unnoticed, with Hirer Angti (The Diamond Ring), a few years back. I at once recalled that I had seen the film on Television in Chhuti Chhuti (Holiday Fun), a programme that used to be aired on Kolkata Doordarshan for children during the vacation. I remembered that I liked the movie a lot. Unfortunately, I had not seen the name of the director, for I switched on the film after the title cards had been shown. The very making of the film underscored the fact (please note I was only 15 at that time, and had not sufficiently developed an eye for good movies) that it was made by someone who knew how to naturalise films, and use camera-angles which were not seen in the run-of-the-mill Bengali films of that time. The memories of Hirer Angti catalyzed my interest in Unishe April even more. I had to see the film!
Somehow, thank god, I convinced my mother to get tickets for Unishe April, assuring her that it was a good film, there were no explicit love-making scenes, and it had got the seal of our finicky (add ‘irritatingly’ before finicky) government in form of the national award. Interestingly, much later when Rituparno had become a household name, in a programme called Ebong Rituparno (With Rituparno), a talk-show aired on E-TV Bangla (long before Koffee with Karan became a chartbuster), he told Aparna Sen how he coaxed his aunt into taking him for Jay Jayanti (a Bengali film inspired by Sound of Music), convincing her that though it featured ‘adult’ movie stars Uttam Kumar and Aparna Sen, it was an out-and-out children’s film, and most of his classmates had seen it. I had to apply a different tactic (as mentioned above), for Unishe was in no way a children’s film.
Unishe was released at Minar, Bijali and Chhobighar, three of the oldest and bug-infested theatres of Kolkata. In spite of the bugs that worried us constantly, we could not really lose our concentration, once the curtains were up. Unishe tells the story of Sarojini (Aparna Sen) and Aditi alias Mithu (Debasree Roy), mother and daughter respectively. April 19 is the day on which Aditi’s beloved father (Boddhisatya Majumdar) had passed away. The story-line is a considerably unusual, for no Bengali film has ever dealt so poignantly with the tension between mother and daughter. Aditi’s oedipal hostility towards her mother is concretized when her dad passes away while Sarojini is away in Madras for a dance show. Aditi, a seven year old, continues to mourn her father’s death for 19 years, unable to erase from her mind the fact that mother was away when dad breathed his last. Fiendishly busy with her career, Sarojini can hardly spend quality time with Aditi who is left in the care of her dad, a not-so-successful doctor. Aditi develops abhorrence for her mother who she misses terribly as a child. The palpable absence of her mother fills her days while Bela (Chitra Sen), the house-maid, turns into her confidant, almost a surrogate mother. Sarojini barely makes an attempt to ‘know’ her daughter well, though this does not imply that she is nonchalant about her. The root of the problem lies in Sarojini’s refusal to give up her career as a dancer. Growing up with a chauvinistic father, Aditi fails to see the necessity of retaining the career, the necessity of trying to look at things from her mother’s perspective as well.
Sarojini’s predicament is akin to many women around us. Most of them are expected to strike a proper balance between the home and the world, failing which they are unthinkingly dubbed irresponsible. Aditi realises that towards the end of the film; by then, she had already decided upon giving up her career as a doctor, by burning the letterheads. She had almost spontaneously started defining herself with respect to Sudeep, her boyfriend (Prasenjit Chatterjee), a Mama’s boy. Sudeep’s refusal to tie the knot with her on the pretext of her mother’s being a dancer, prompts Aditi to attempt suicide. Aditi who had looked upon Sudeep as taking the place of her father in her affection, is terminally shattered, as it were.
Most of the time, we expect the person we love to return the love in the same manner. That’s human nature. What most of us forget is that love is not just an emotion, as some of us wish it were so, but a social relationship that is conditioned by everything we feel is not linked to love. Love is no sublime emotion, lifted out of normal processes of life. Unishe remains open-ended. It does not tell us whether Aditi accepts Sudeep or not. In fact, that is immaterial. Even if Aditi accepted Sudeep, and everything ended in the “they lived happily ever after” syndrome, what we know that Aditi has already loved and lost. She is into a lifelong compromise, a compromise most of us often willingly opt for as we continue to believe in this construct called love. Unishe, therefore, did not just tell the story of a temperamental doctor and her mother, but the story we write ourselves everyday through our actions. I saw myself in every frame of the film.
What made Unishe April a fresh breath of air is Rituparno’s attention to details, which is the hallmark of all his films. Aditi, interestingly, calls Bela, Boya. I can relate to this completely. My childhood inability to pronounce names correctly has lovingly stayed on, and I still call some of my closed ones by those names, even after I became fluent in two other languages apart from my mother tongue. Sudeep so closely resembles a friend of mine that when I saw the film for the first time I felt that he was lifted directly out of my own life. The way Sudeep talks, his concerns, his nonchalance — everything matched so miraculously with this friend of mine, it seemed that I was experiencing everything in a stupor. I vividly remember that after watching the film, my dad had commented that my temperamental and introverted nature matched Aditi’s. He had related to Aditi as he related to me in real life. There was one poignant scene where Sarojini tells her husband quite enthusiastically that she would like to replace a depressing calendar featuring a cat by their photographs. Her sense of interior décor is definitely better than her husband, but the latter dismisses her proposal almost insultingly. Indifferent to her tastes, he finds it embarrassing to have his photograph displayed for he is not as famous as his wife; and in any case, a calendar need not be removed simply because it featured a cat; for the cat hardly matters: calendars are meant for dates. I can completely relate to this. I have had enough quarrels with friends and colleagues who refused to see a possible marriage between utilitarianism and aestheticism. I have failed to reason out many who do not feel garnishing a dish is a necessity.
I saw Unishe April when I was in Class X. Today I teach in a college…it’s been almost 13 years! Yet, the impact of the film is still fresh. In fact, I have an emotional attachment with every Rituparno Ghosh film…for same, yet different reasons. Next comes Dahan.