A JOURNEY OF SELF DISCOVERY IN 35 MM

Over the weekend, I finally took some time off to make my way to Siri Fort to catch a share of the 12^th Osian’s Cinefan Festival screenings of Indian, Asian and Arab Cinema. The event took me back to my days of running around from pillar to post while organizing film festivals of this nature albeit not of such large proportion. Having curated three to five day Film Festivals at NCPA Mumbai, I know how much hard work and research one has to be willing to put in to create such an eclectic bouquet of films. And then the logistics to sustain the hype, energy and seamless flow of events on a ten day bandwidth takes humongous effort. Add to that the scale of the venue. The intimidating Siri Fort while doing justice to a Festival of such scale can also be a mammoth at your disposal given the vast expanse, multiple venues and scope of mishaps on offer.  Add to that organizing panel discussions with national and international film crews, varied music events and discussions with celebrities to mark ‘100 years of Indian cinema’ and you have the task of a lifetime to be effectively realised with a handful of people, stringent budgets and erratic miscellaneous reasons that spell trouble. The success of any festival after so much blood, tears and sweat is finally in the number of footfalls, theatre occupancy and the delegates’ feedback. Thankfully, the buzz so far is that the Festival is doing pretty ok on all these fronts.  Throwing in an interesting mix of journos, film critics, writers, makers, students, experts and simply enthusiasts of all ages above 18, the crowd of delegates belonging to multiple cities, races, nationalities and professions jostle for space and seat to catch the best of films in the Asian panorama.

I have been to several Film Festivals before this one including the much lauded IFFI Goa and MAMI, and the intriguing milieu of people attending such events has always fascinated me as much as the aura that they create around the Festival. The common thread that binds these oddly assembled cognoscenti is the passion for cinema that is out of the box, experimental, fresh and innovative. A lot of my friends have often asked me, so why attend film festivals?  Well, are you a typical ‘movie buff’ who survives on Hollywood and Bollywood junk apart from perhaps, a few scattered gems in your vernacular language? Are you happy to spend a fortune every year watching diluted, convoluted and often ‘inspired’ trash in the name of films at your neighbourhood multiplex in the name of entertainment? And if film viewing for you is just about seeing a handful of your favourite superstars display their stardom in the name of histrionics, then film festivals are not for you.  Because in a film festival, the film is the star! The cast may be great but equal amount of attention is paid to the craft, the language and the plot- things that may not be so important when it comes to commercial cinema.  It is here that a filmmaker has to worry about how well his film will do by exposing it to a cultivated and mature audience which eats, sleeps, worships, talks and breathes cinema without worrying about the box office results. It is a learning ground for both the cineaste and the cinefan, the manufacturer and the customer, the auteur and his audience. I have always been lucky enough to catch some wonderful films at these film festivals that have left an indelible impression on my imagination. These are films that leave a mark on your soul, they touch you somewhere deep inside, providing an everlasting memory to cherish and reminisce about. They offer little nuggets of fiction, morals, values or human nature that are not confined within celluloid but actually manage to spark your intellect.

So for me a film festival has a resonance far beyond just film viewing. On last Sunday for example, I regaled myself in the joy of walking in from one audi to another to catch films from India, Iran and Singapore, back to back. I wondered why Swiss, Italian and French films were part of the schedule. I tried to justify the dominance of freshly grilled Hindi films like Rockstar, Vicky Donor, Paan Singh Tomar, Shanghai and Gangs of Wasseypur. I also tried to look visibly miffed with the undermining of new Bengali cinema that has given us gems like Laptop and Hemlock Society or even the ghostly comic caper Bhooter Bhobhishyat recently.

Make no mistake. I am like most aam junta in many ways. Movies wouldn’t have half their magic without the Ridley Scotts, Christopher Nolans and James Camerons of the world. And how can I deny that I have relished many a Bollywood film, whether from a Dibakar Banerjee or Anurag Kashyap or any of the big banners like Yashraj or UTV Motion Pictures to name a few. I love revisiting the classics whether that is Satyajit Ray, Guru Dutt or Raj Kapoor. And films like Jo Jeeta Wohi Sikander and Andaz Apna Apna are proud additions to my favourite movie list. But imagine this: Where else can I walk in to a theatre to watch a Bengali film called Cosmic Sex on sexual evolution of a man, stroll out to an exhibition area where Victor Banerjee is giving his two piece on 100 years of cinema, wander in to a screening of an Iranian film called The Orange Suit and stay transfixed to my seat for the next screening of a Japanese animation film called Tatsumi tracing the biographic trajectory of a graphic story teller since World War II?

Welcome to a pure, unadulterated and honest cinematic journey that celebrates freedom of expression. These film festivals are an opportunity to satiate the hunger for quality cinema through moving picture postcards of lands and people undiscovered, stories untold and emotions unfelt. Trust me friends, there is so much food for thought to chew on in here you won’t miss the popcorn!

 cinefan.osians.com/

Post Script of a Super Star

First it was the slimy Laila murder story being hyped for the slain lady being Rajesh Khanna’s last co-star and now it is the ‘Love Story’ between him and Anita Advani that is being flogged to death on leading news channels. There is no dignity spared for even the dead in this country. More so if it is none other than India’s first superstar we are talking about. We may hold a candle and mourn his passing away with millions around the country. We might even shed a tear at the evergreen melodies and films he has left behind to cherish. But thanks to some really insipid and distasteful journalistic fervour and our voyeuristic tendencies, we will also lap up the superhero’s dirty linen that the media is determined to wash in public on 'your' news channels.

So get ready for jarring and tacky cut outs of estranged wife Dimple Kapadia and his alleged ‘companion’ Anita Advani  pitted against a rather haggard looking Khanna in his last days. So much for the man whose last wish was to transform his home in to a museum that housed his memoirs, his heroism, his stardom and his fame. Someone who wishes to be remembered as one of the beacons of superstardom he lived up to be, thanks to his talent, charisma and mass appeal. It’s not even a week since the man bid farewell to this world and we are already digging the sleaze up, revelling in his ‘fallen’ ways and enjoying the suspense of who will finally win his property rights.

The characters in the plot could never have been more set to make for spicy ingredients in an otherwise murky tale. A leading heroine in her heydays as a wife, a star son in law who is currently raking it in at the box office married to an ex-heroine turned interior designer and now pregnant elder daughter. It would have been a shame not to pick these characters right out of real time and transfer them to the convoluted confines of a sensational TV script. Round them up, churn them around, add some gossip and fill up with idle banter from ‘sources’ and you have the makings of a commercial  Hindi potboiler. Much like some of the films Khanna starred in when he was alive. Lots of loud melodrama and bitter squabbles. Think background music...a shot of Anita Advani looking pensive and troubled at the same time with the song, ‘Na Koi Umang Hai, Na Koi Tarang Hai, Meri Zindagi Kya, Ek Kati Patang Hai...’ Kaka hated tears when he was alive. I hope he can forgive us for putting him through the shame of being subjected to such malevolent speculation  after his death.

Karan Johar recently opined that the real world is far more dramatic than the one potrayed in films. Our news journalist friends would know, they make a living out of it everyday.

They Will Never Know...

There are times when I weep clairvoyant tears, tears of loss and longing...
For this generation which will sadly, never feel a sense of belonging.
There was a time we spoke a language unique to our own,
It was called our mother’s tongue, largely ethnic and home grown.
But now they all speak, read and write in English Mom,
I guess the reason is they never wanna come back home.
I know the LP, cassette and CD markets have crashed,
Music comes cheap, record prices are slashed...
But no one listens to the oldies anymore,
So who will remember Mukesh, Rafi and Kishore?
We grew old on MJ’s dance moves as he got millions agog,
That magic is laid to rest, clouding the legend in a shroud of fog.
We cheered when Sachin played, we revered his success story,
Now that he is to play no more, who is to experience his glory?
I feel lucky to have witnessed it all, and humbled by the bygone age.
And wish the lost generation could connect with me on the same page.
I am lost at conversation really, they all call me jaded now.
If only I could make them travel back in time, the only question is how!
Time races on, and people come and go,
But there is a legacy that remains to show,
Ah but kids, they don’t halt to hear and see,
Always rushing by in a hurry,
Alas, they will never know...