A Peep(li) into New Age Neo-Realism

The Italian Neo-Realist Movement of the 1940’s was a product of necessity. De Sica, Verga, Rosellini, Visconti filmed the reality of their days under the tough times of the 2^nd World War. They told stories about the man on the streets because they were sick of the idealistic, upper class cinema of the “telefono bianco” type (the white telephone was a symbol of the Italian rich). They reused old film, picked up non-professional actors and shot on location in Italy. The result was the birth of classics like Umberto D., Shoeshine, Bicycle Thief, La Terra Trema and Rome, Open City.

The necessity has arisen again. P. Sainath, in his ‘India's Farm Suicides: a 12-Year Saga’ reminds us that 16,196 farmer suicides were registered in the year 2008. And this was the year of the loan waiver. In times like these, “Bollywood” has still been producing darling little films like I Hate Luv Stories, Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi, Kites, Pyaar Impossible and the one that is never too old for jokes, Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham. The last one of course tries hard to present Kajol as an example of the urban poor. In Manish Malhotra clothes.

In times, exactly like these comes Anusha Rizvi’s Peepli Live. Now I would hardly pin Rizvi as the new De Sica…but for a first time director with not much movie-making experience, she does supremely well. Her actors have the natural style of non-professionals and the film has a raw, unfinished look that makes Italian Neo-Realist films seem real.

Peepli Live follows the story of Natthadas Manikpuri, an ordinary farmer who is at the bottom of the social pyramid, about to lose his ancestral farm land. A randomly suggested idea by a local neta turns things around for the whole village of Peepli as Nattha decides to commit suicide and inadvertently invites a carnival of media persons into his life. The film deftly kills two birds with one stone. On the one hand, it innocently nudges you to look at the lives of these farmers, on the other, it makes a biting critique of the media frenzy that occurs in this country over the smallest of things.

The script is often reminiscent of Brecht, with dialogues and imagery that present the contradictions of the situation most accurately. For instance, when Nattha’s brother tries to show him the bright side of the situation by showing him how much respect he could gain out of this, he simply asks what use the respect would be if he were dead. Similarly, the elaborate gag that ensues when Nattha sneaks out to take a crap, the witty lyrics of the Mehengai Daiin song as well as the ingenious premise of the “Laal Bahadur” reminded me extensively of Brecht. 

 

Without giving away too much on the plot, it is the technique behind Peepli Live that I want to discuss here. The regular camera work is mingled with shots from hand-held cameras that capture the point of view of Nattha and his family, isolated, even among crowds of news reporters. But Rizvi’s expertise is in the way she deals with images. Ultimately, when you leave the cinema hall, it is these images that you take away: Nattha and his family with hardly any place to sleep in, in the midst of TVs, domestic appliances and other useless gifts they will probably never use; the lone farmer who keeps digging relentlessly to sell his soil to brick makers; the small pool of water eventually found at the bottom of his pit; Nattha in a colored shirt on a bridegroom’s horse, riding away; empty plastic bottles and trash left after all the media OB-vans have left and the final images of Nattha which bring you out of the theater wondering what is in store for him next.

Why I (definitely...maybe...) hate love stories...

Just before the film closes for a much-needed interval, Imran Khan's "J" tells Sonam Kapoor's Simran that all her "confusion" is because of "this stupid love" and all the lovey-dovey movies she's been watching. Love jaisi koi cheez hi nahi hai, he tells her with full conviction, making Santa Claus' existence seem more real and believable.In the silence of the theatre, my friend Nikita D'Cruz, who had pretended to identify completely with Imran Khan's love-hating character up until now proclaimed, "I don't hate love. I believe it exists. But I do hate love stories." I agreed immediately into the darkness. Probably because of the debacle that lay before me.

The film was Punit Malhotra's "I Hate Luv Storys". And badly spelt title, cliched screenplay, contrived dialogues and mediocre performances apart, the film actually managed to get me thinking. Films, novels, the media in general give us a picture of love that is highly distorted, to say the least. In broad daylight, love is a complicated thing. Not as glorious, as bright, as dramatic or as easy as it looks. Here's my take on the five instant distortions of love presented in most run of the mill love stories. (Each distortion comes with a case in point that illustrates what I'm trying to say as well as a must-watch exception to my theory...)

1. The Fat and the Furious
So how come the lovers in most love stories are bloody gorgeous? Even if this is one of those films/novels where the hot girl/guy falls for the "inner beauty" of the geeky character, this love business never happens without a complete make-over. And no matter how geeky the character, he/she is never fat, never has cellulite and is always one shave/wax/haircut (+ pair of contact lenses - braces) away from being beee-you-tee-full. Of course, these films always hypocritically advocate the importance of being yourself.

The truth is, you have to alter yourself quite a bit even to get a date in the real world. You have to watch and learn. And learn fast. Because nothing is as it seems. Ask any girl who's had to wait an hour before replying to a text message from a guy she likes just so she wouldn't appear too needy (when she's actually just dying to have a conversation with the fool).

Case In Point: She's All That
Must-Watch Exception: The Mirror Has Two Faces, The Hitch

2. Who Moved My Cheese?

"You complete me."

"I'm just a girl. Standing in front of a boy. Asking him to love her."

Any of these ring a bell? At the crux of any good love story are some really great lines. And although you call them cheesy in front of your beer-and-football buddies, you love them, you weep at them and when the time comes, you even SAY them. Yes, yes, love is a gigantic cheeseburger...and its probably no fun without the cheese. But these lines are just spontaneous and emotional. We're socially conditioned to spurt these by the dozen. What we don't realise, because the film always ends happily, is that jealousy, rage, possessiveness are as much a part of  the grimy, greasy burger as the cheese. If he chooses someone else in his next janam, you can't take him to court. And when she finds someone else who completes her better, its time to learn some new moves.

Case In Point: Dil To Pagal Hai
Must-Watch Exception: Juno

3. Monetary Affairs

Characters in most love stories are rich. My bad. They're middle class people and all they can afford is Dior, Armani, Prada, Louis Vuitton, Blackberry/iPhone,chauffer driven cars, expensive sushi and a daily cuppa Italian-coffee. In some films, you're not even aware of what they do for a living; in others, they have exciting, colorful and unconventional occupations. Money, recession, unemployment, rat races, life goals are not an issue. These are sorted so that you can pay attention to the "important" stuff.

Case In Point: Kuch Kuch Hota Hai

Must-Watch Exception: A Lot Like Love

4. Sign-tific theories

Important. The theory that "love will show you the way" or that you will see signs that lead you to your love are dubious. There are coincidences. And they're fun. But that's that.

Love stories teach you to expect these magical symbols. And take it from someone who once believed, if you're looking for signs that the random girl you were trying to pick up at a party is in love with you, it ain't gonna come. Go home. Wash your face. Get to work. That song you danced to together plays on the radio EVERYDAY. Because its a chart buster. Not because she's going to appear at the corner coffee shop.
(However, if she does appear at the corner coffee shop with a toy-boy in tow, then that is probably a very very good sign)

Case In Point: Dil Toh Pagal Hai and I Hate Luv Storys
Must-Watch Exception: Serendipity (at least debates the idea fairly)

5. Love Makes The World Go Round
My number one problem with love stories: they repeatedly drill into you the idea of love as an all-pervading force; they convince you that its the only thing in the world worth living for. Not true. Individuality, dreams, success, ambition, happiness and just doing what you love are as important. In fact, these often create, cement and strengthen relationships.

Case In Point: Twilight
Must-Watch Exception: Runaway Bride, Jerry Maguire (again, they debate the idea fairly)

Epilogue
Towards the end of Jerry Maguire, Renee Zellweger says to a divorced women's support group,

"I agree that men are the enemy. But then maybe, I love the enemy."

The way I feel about love stories is probably this. (The fact that I remembered that line off the top of my head should be proof enough as to how Rom-com-addled my brain is...)

I am a happy sitter-on-the-fence; I cry like a baby during some of these films while "Mard ka sar sirf teen auraton ke saamne jhukta hai"-type dialogues make me go "Ew. Ew! EW."

In short, I'm open to debate. But while I'm at it, let me just say this: I like my caramel-tomato-cheese popcorn shaken.

Bad Bad Beera

So. Mani Ratnam's Raavan had its moments. Like when SP Dev burns cigarette holes into a newspaper cutout that features Beera and his gang and the holes look like ten heads. Cool. But random inspired moments do not make a film. Next to me, my dad kept muttering in Marathi, "So how much are we supposed to forgive just because its Mani??" Die hard fans of the filmmaker, my dad and I sat through it, while my mum made the subtle excuse of aching legs to sit in PVR's lobby and eat salted popcorn instead. Unfortunately, terrible person that I am, I forgive, but never forget. Therefore, for your benefit...

The Ten Things in Raavan you WILL have to Forgive Mani and Friends for:

1. SP Dev (Vikram) doesn't really know what side he is on. He is far from being the god-like Ram. He kills (Beera's brother), trusts (Govinda's Sanjeevani) and hurts (Beera's brother in law) at random. Mani thinks taking a leaf out of Sanjay Gupta's book and giving his character dark glasses can replace the need for character definition altogether.
2. Sabyasachi lurks somewhere outside the frame so that Aishwarya's Raagini can look drop dead gorgeous in every shot. Even when she takes to wearing clothes given by the tribals, Sabya's gorgeous block print is a recognisable distraction on the blouse.
3. Santosh Sivan and V. Manikanandan are roped in for the cinematography with the assumption that they can make up for plot. In several parts, they almost do.
4. Govinda is allowed to do Spiderman-like stunts as the human-Hanuman, Sanjeevani and we are expected to believe that the khamba of desi-lemon daaru he lugs around is responsible for this. Also, he finds Raagini in the thick forest in minutes once he decides to, while the police force who have been at it for days just can't. 
5. If you looked at the trailers closely enough, you already knew this: Beera (Abhishek Bachchan) with his chandan-painted face is the Joker's naajayaz aulad. He laughs, grunts and mutters like a psychopath: "Chik Chik Chik Chik" and "Bak Bak Bak Bak" being his favoured phrases. Thankfully, Beera does not dress up as a nurse or cut up peoples smiles. He only ties people to strange scarecrow-mannequins and blows up police camps in true-blue Dark Knight fashion.
6. Hilariously enough, Raagini who is free to run from the clutches of the wily Beera, doesn't do so for fourteen days, because understandably, she will never be able to find her way out of the jungles. Yet, when her "purity" is questioned by her pati Dev, she simply stops-train-by-pulling-chain, gets off empty handed and reaches Beera's pad a short walk and a bus ride later.
7. There are two climactic scenes. These were probably necessary to extend a two page screenplay into a forty page one. The first climax involves gravity-and-fire-defying stunts on a wooden ropeway and you can hear the tiny wooden planks groan under the combined weight of Abhishek Bachchan and Vikram.
8. In the second climax, Raagini is dressed up in white. And she arrives in this attire to question Beera on the whole purity issue. And Beera is dressed in black. Ah! The subtle symbolism.
9. There are too many songs in the film. If you sat through Guru wondering what the point of the "Ek Lo Ek Muft" song was, prepare to wonder while "Thok De Killi" and "Kata Kata Bechaara Bakra" play. Strangely, Mani takes from Ekta Kapoor in the film. Her *Dhadhan. Dhadhan. Dhadhan* during the vamp's entrance is replaced with a *Beera. Beera. Beera*.  The glory, power and evil of Raavan is thus reduced to the purposeless cattiness of Komolika  :-|
10. The only true representation Mani achieves in the film is that of the nature of a man's love vs a woman's. Really. It only takes a long jump down a waterfall, a landing on a thorny protruding branch, a collapse and near-drowning in the river, a rock climbing adventure and an attack with a pointy rock for Beera to fall in love with Raagini. Meanwhile, all it takes for Raagini to fall for Beera is Dev's "rejection" and Beera's belief that she is pure "like gold which glows more when it is burned in a fire".

Anatomy of the Marathi TV Serial

Having spent a rather large part of this week with my grandparents in Pune, I finally got the opportunity to reconnect with my roots. Did I attend a authentic Marathi culture fest? No. Did I examine folk art of the tamasha or the warlis? Nope. Did I connect with members of my linguistic community on topics of cultural importance? Hell no!
Instead I spent a small part of my trip accompanying the grandparents in their daily activities of Soaping. Ew. Not that kind of soaping, children. I am talking, obviously, of the Marathi TV serial. For four whole days this week, I was tried on a diet of Bhairoba, Shubam Karoti, Saam Gurukul and Sa Re Ga Ma Pa. I learnt later that these were in the good company of Anubandha, Vahinisaheb, Kunku, Kulavadhu, Avaghachi Sansaar and the irresistable Home Minister. This final one is not of the daily soap type (neither actually, are Saam Gurukul and Sa Re Ga Ma Pa)...but deserves a little discussion because of the sheer volumes of audience it engenders.
It is with great excitement and typical Maharashtrian fervour, then, that I proceed to dissect some of these. Any remarks about Maharashtrians are to be taken with a pinch of salt...As Chetan Bhagat would put it, you only joke about the people you love... As for the non-Maharashtrians, I can promise you none of this is limited only to the Marathi-speaking population. We are a nation of screwed up people. If you have ever watched the likes of the K-serials, Saloni ka Safar, Choti Bahu... you will get my drift.

Chapter One: The "Ghatasfot"
This one is my personal favourite. I find it extremely interesting that the word for 'divorce' in Marathi is so similar to the word for 'bomb blast' ("bomsfot")... And the ghatasfot is a calamity of similar proportions in the Marathi TV serial. Its eruption causes so much drama that I can assure you divorce lawyers are almost as hated as Kasab in the Marathi serial world. Almost.
Ofcourse, like every other patriarchal community, we like to blame the woman for the ghatsfot. Afterall, the "mangalsutraachi aabru" comes with a built in "lakshman rekha" which these on screen women are blamed for crossing... faster than you can say SEXIST.

Chapter Two: Garbhavati - The Pregnant Woman
Sounds like a B-movie no? Anyway, remember: a woman is never just a woman. She is the upholder of tradition and sau(n)skaar. Therefore, some very logical equations follow.
Pre-marital sex = Paap (Sin)
Pre-marital sex + Pregnancy = Maha paap (and the woman is always asked how she "let" it happen/influenced the mind of the innocent boy and forced him into it)
Ofcourse, this is also the ultimate weapon to force an unwilling saasu to get her son married to you. Ladies, take note for future reference.
The upside: the married Garbhavati can use her pregnancy as an all access pass. An excellent tool to improving your "bad boy" husband, pleasing your in-laws and "improving" a breaking marriage. Brownie points for giving birth to a boy...but still accepted for delivering a future-grabhavati to the world.

Chapter Three: The Mishter
Alternatively addressed as "Bara kaa" or "Aaho" or "Aamche Hey" (which literally translated, means "Ours this one"). Like any good Indian woman, the Marathi bai never ever calls her husband by his name. Therefore, he is often referred to as her "mishter". The Mishter is a rather insignificant cog in the serial world because in the larger scheme of Garbhavatis, Saubhagyavatis, Ardhaanginis, Saasus and Vamps, the innocent husband has little to do. He comes. He earns the bread and butter. He occesionally stands up for his wife/mother/sister. He impregnates (because sperm banks are still a novelty to our world) and he conquers.

Chapter Four: The Home Minister
If you ever get a chance, you must MUST catch the TV show by the same name on Zee Marathi. Hosted by the delicious (ok...maybe not...) Aadesh Bandekar, this is the guilty pleasure of several housewives in Maharashtra. On the show, women of the socio-economic middle class compete with each other in several simplistic games- dumb charades where they must mime names of common household items, spoon races, antakshari contests and so on. The grand prize that each vahini is willing to kill for? A Paithani saree...and of course the respect and envy of others in the neighbourhood. Therefore, when Mr. Bandekar comes a visiting, the housewives invite the whole village to see the sport. And they gracefully stand in a crowd waiting to be introduced - "This is my mishter. My first son. My second son. The neighbours son. My uncle. My husband's best friend's wife. My husband's best friend's wife's sister..."...you get the drift. The only reason why this one is a personal favourite is the fact that it really reaches out to the masses...and gives these women what my Lit teacher would call a celebratory space- where they can celebrate being women- without excluding the males in their lives.

Epilogue
I would have loved to include
Chapter 5: The Mutual Admiration Society of Reality Show Judges... but if you've seen Himesh going "Excellent. Mind Blowing!! History!!!!" every two seconds on Sa Re Ga Ma Pa...you already know....
Chapter 6: The Saasu (Mother in Law) requires no further description

and many such...but maybe in true blue TV serial fashion I'll sign of with the dramatic...TO BE CONTINUED....
and in true blue viewer fashion, expect to be let down. :)

Faith, Trust and... Pixie Dust

How important is faith when it comes to love? The question came up in the tense dark of Maratha Mandir when during the climax of India's longest running film, the hero simply let go of his heroine because he did not believe in eloping with her against her parents wishes. I argued with my friend while Amrish Puri (the father) laid slap after slap on Shah Rukh Khan (Raj)'s rather delicious cheek.

"How can he just leave her like that and go??? Its insane! They love each other." I whispered agitatedly across to my partner in crime Reshma.
"Its faith, Nik. He believes with all his heart that Simran's father WILL bring her to him."
"But what if he didn't? I mean...this is just a movie... what if the father DIDN'T let her go at the last minute?" I argued, always the sceptic. She'd have to spend the rest of her life in a forced relationship with Kuljeet Singh, who, we had all agreed half an hour ago, was a total creep.
"He believes in it. Therefore it will happen. And that's just the way it is in real life." My idealist friend shot back. The thing is, Reshma really believes this. She believes in the healing power of love, she believes in fairy tale love stories, that someone out there is destined to be hers and...among other things...that Raj (from the same, Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge) is a virgin. I have laughed over this last one with her several times. But I haven't been able to provide empirical evidence (so to speak) to prove her other beliefs faulty.

Its not like I'm trying to prove her wrong though. I just want to test the power of faith. I want to know if marriages are really made in heaven, if two people can be together for ever... For most part, I am scientific and sceptical. I question everything. It doesn't just take having burnt your own fingers to know that relationships can be hard work. Statistics prove it too. Faith in the idea that everything will turn out right in the end may not cure cheating, lies, deception or simply a passing away of romantic feelings.

However, at the end of the day, I AM a girl. Unfortunately, fairy tale logic is what we're fed and raised on. We believe the idiot will discover an old text message, phone log or see a "sign" (the old-fashioned way) that will make him get off his ass and call. A co-sceptic and close friend recently had her tarot cards read, asking the Reader if things would work out between her and this guy she has a crush on. The Reader told her that things would indeed work out but that she was to do nothing. Absolutely nothing. This is a problem-point for my friend. An absolute "man of action", she cannot believe she has to wait (patiently) for the stupid boy to have a sudden brainwave...or a desperate wave anywhere else in his body...to set up as much as an evening out together. Acid test of faith? Yup. But how to account for free will? The choices we make? The actions that determine our fate in the world? Would Romeo and Juliet have had a happily ever after, if they just waited around for a bit? Or Raj and Simran...had they just eloped?

A couple I know for a while now have been together for over thirty years. Has love kept them together? Has faith in their love kept them together? Sex? No siree. These two are in it for the kids.

And the kids look up at them as they argue, week after week, fight after fight, with the definitive faith that...no matter what happens...these two will never give up on the marriage because they... (hold your breath)... love each other.

The Disease

Mumbai, India: Circa January 2010

The train stopped at Bandra. The women got off. The women got on. Two most fortunate women got the lucky space next to the door.

You cannot underestimate the importance of the lucky space on the Indian local train network. The lucky space is the only place on the train where you can imagine the possibility of a breeze, without getting killed. A great many historic wars have been fought for Her Spaceness and only the bravest and the most resilient have won.

One woman, 50, dressed in a blouse and trousers, coral necklace in place, heaved a sigh of relief. She was going to be in time for work. The way she was, always. The other, 20, (barely a woman for two years according to the law) continued to read her Amartya Sen essay, mandatory reading for a Modernism class she should have been in fifteen minutes ago.

Enter two lepers, stage left. "No. No," shouted the Victorian in blouse and trousers, "Yeh fust class haai. Tumare logon ka alag compartment mein jao." She looked to other women for support. "They have a separate compartment for the handicapped, no?" But the leper was faster. With the one leg and damaged hands he had, he swung into the door. Right in the middle of the lucky place. Open yellowing bruises, congealed blood, flies and all.

The Modernist looked down. His foot...or whatever remained of it... had brushed hers twice. Mental note, she wrote, ask friend from Med School if leprosy is contagious. Then she felt ashamed. Guilty. According to Amartya Sen, our ideas of justice come from our social identity. How we were raised. What we were taught. She had been raised to believe in karma. And the knowledge that karma exists, is terrible. Somewhere in her head a divine cash register was going *kachinnnngggg* with a new addition to her final bill. One more dead weight on the wrong side of her beam balance. One more thing that could go around and come back around. She had been taught at college of Human Rights. Heard stories of philantrophists who had crossed borders illegally to help the underprivileged. She had listened. And now she stood.

She looked up at the Victorian. A great conflict was bubbling on her face. Literally. Her features were contorted and her eyebrows went up and down maniacally. The Modernist opened a mental copy of her 2nd year Psychology texbook. Atkinson and Hilgard. She was sure the Victorian had some kind of syndrome. Turrets, was it? It didn't matter. The karmic cash register was unwilling to stop and her education was throwing questions to her conscience. Should a disabled leper be allowed to travel in the first class compartment of a train, without a ticket? Shouldn't we share the resources of our world with the underprivileged?

The Victorian was beginning to regret it too. The contortions in her face were forming words. Bless, me, father, for, I, have, sinned. Didn't she distribute food to the poor at community service? This too was community service, yes. She would have to learn to be more tolerant towards the underprivileged. The effervescence on her face simmered, then died.

At Mumbai Central, the leper started to get up. The Modernist involuntarily put out a hand to his back to help him up. But stopped short of touching him by a few centimetres for worry of the contagious (or not) nature of his disease. He swung his branch-like arms around the pole at the door and got off the train.

The leper was a test. A sort of litmus paper. First, he was dipped into an acid. Then, into an alkali. Together, the two had formed a base.

The Victorian got off with five "Hail Mary"s. The Modernist, with a "clean" karmic bill. Their diseases were only theirs. On the platform, the leper sat down and wondered if his friend Khalu would have a bidi.