The Murderous Mangalsutra in Ramaiya Vastavaiya

(Minor spoilers ahead)

I enjoyed Ramaiyya Vastavaiyya like you can only enjoy a Telugu potboiler or a Salman Khan movie: with a dollop of indulgence and surrender to the movie's loony premise. The movie is no doubt skillfully crafted. I watched it with my in-laws and my parents, and we are an assortment of five very unique individuals. It is to the credit of the film and the people in front as well as behind the camera that each one of us enjoyed the movie and never once got bored. More on the movie later; here I am only addressing a common trope used during the climactic fight scene.

My knowledge of South Indian films is very limited - I cannot tell Tamil from Telugu. Anyone who can enlighten me on the subject here is most welcome to do so politely.

A very knowledgeable friend, a rationalist who has spent the best years of his life fighting superstition in rural Maharashtra, once told me about the origin of the Mangalsutra, a string of black and golden beads that married women in Southern states of India wear to signify their marital status (besides the mandatory bindi, toe rings, bangles, sindoor and whatever else local customs require married women to wear to make it crystal clear that they're taken).

According to him, in olden days when an attacking army ravished a neighboring kingdom, women in the besieged land were considered spoils of war for the victorious soldiers. To avoid fighting among themselves over the best goods, the custom was for the horseback soldier to throw a noose around the neck of any woman he fancied. That noose came to symbolize a man's right over a woman. Over the centuries, this noose evolved into a more elegant ornament called mangalsutra, but it's function, for those who believe, remains the same - it signifies a man's possession of a woman, and the woman's status as one with a living husband.

I don't know if this origin story is completely true, but the brandishing of Mangalsutra in some Indian movies, particularly in Southern potboilers and their Hindi remakes, makes this theory plausible. The errant young bahu in one movie gets her way with her husband and in-laws by threatening to tear the yellow string; the good wife in another movie runs as if for her life when the villain tries to snatch the sacred thread from her, like it would have mortally hurt her hale and hearty husband; the baddies in yet another movie try to get their revenge on the guy from a poor family who secretly MS-ed their precious young sister (using it as a verb seems to convey the action more effectively), by threatening to get the village madman to MS the poor guy's widowed mother. The scene where the old widow is humiliated in front of the whole village by first splashing color on her chaste white sari, then adorning her hair with jasmine - soon followed by a shot of her terrified face framed by the approaching Mangalsutra in the madman's hands - has disturbing undertones of a rape being committed in full public view.

The latest frothy romance from Prabhu Deva turns to the same trope during it's climactic fight scene. Truth be told, the scene where the mild-mannered Shruti Hassan is kidnapped and surrounded by some repulsive-looking goons in an isolated area is creepy enough to make the skin crawl. When baddie-in-chief declares that his son will now make her a proper bride, I began to worry that this so far family-friendly movie was about to turn ugly, when son-of-baddie revealed his evil plan and his evil weapon - yes, a Mangalsutra. Of course the girl's brother and boyfriend promptly appear to her rescue, but even amid the chaos of men fighting and arms and legs breaking all around, son-of-baddie manages to corner the girl and MS her right then and there. Of course his throat is slit by one of the good guys before he can execute this nefarious scheme.

Maybe I'm too much of a softie, but rather than kill a human being, no matter how creepy and despicable, wouldn't it be more amicable for all parties to just let him tie the freaking thread, then go ahead and break a few of his bones, dispose the thread, and get on with your life? I get that tying the thread is a visual metaphor for evil deeds you'd rather not show on screen. Much like Marshall 'reading a magazine'*, noisy neighbors 'playing bagpipes'** and college kids 'eating sandwiches'*** in HIMYM.

Still, it is somewhat offensive to see an educated woman feel so threatened by an object that is only symbolic of a sacred bond. Sacred objects are sacred because of the meaning we bestow on them. Even if the story of the black beads having evolved from a noose is true, in a civilized society the MS would serve only as a symbol, not a contract - certainly not without informed consent from both parties. By brandishing the sacred thread like a weapon - even if it is only a metaphor in a family-friendly movie - these films seem to take us back to a time when women had no more agency than cattle or a notebook labelled with a kid's name.

* taking a dump
** having noisy sex
*** smoking marijuana

I heart luv stories... though not quite

I recently realized that I'm late to the party as far as a slew of retro love stories in apna Bollywood are concerned. Maybe it's a sign I'm getting old, but I never felt motivated enough to go out and watch I Hate Luv Stories, Mere Brother Ki Dulhan, Rockstar, Ishaqzade, Student Of The Year, Ashiqui Thoo, Ranjhana, and while I was curious about Yeh Jawani Hai Deewani, I let that pass too (and no, I won't include Jab Tak Hai Jaan in this list, dead director zombie hero or whatever). So pardon me for admitting that Lootera took me by surprised. I mean, the era of anti-romantic love stories heralded by Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge and Hum Aaapke Hain Kaun is over, and nobody bothered to share the good news with me!

Now before you start pelting stones at this blog, let me explain. First, stop throwing stuff at your computer screen. Second, well I loved DDLJ and HAHK as much as anybody else in 1994. In 1994.

Those films were good. They stood apart in a time when love stories meant a creepy hero stalking a pink-frocked heroine till she gave in to his rakish charms, then beating up a few baddies before riding off into the sunset. Or creepy hero stalking pink-frocked heroine till she gave in to his rakish charms, then getting into trouble with local don who dutifully plunges at hero's sister who in turn proceeds to die either before or after getting raped in order to be avenged by brooding Bhaiyya who then rides off into the sunset or goes to jail, depending on whether brooding Bhaiyya was played by Akshaye, Sunil or Sunny.

All this changed when Yash uncle and King Face Khan stepped in with a film that, for the first time on Indian screen, put stalking in perspective and reminded us all that in the real world, carving someone's name on your chest is a sign of mental imbalance, at par with talking to your dead mother on phone and killing people. Then came HAHK which reminded us that while finding The One you can frolic around the pool with is really nice, you need to think of your family and their interests too - and chances are, Divine Pomeranian Intervention will step in at just the right time before your sacrifice goes too far.

Then DDLJ put a final seal on the new rules of romance, rules that were to be followed for nearly two decades of Bollywood romances:

• You may hanky-panky against pretty European locales as long as you are appropriately chaste, wear your Hindustani values on your sleeves and can rattle off some lines on the moral superiority of desi boys and girls
• The girl is dad's property, to be taken with permission only
• That means dad's permission, not the girl's. You may hand over the girl to Daddy to be married off as he may please, never mind what she wants
• Love is... leaving some poor guy at the altar to be with your puppy faced lover because... awww....

Over the next couple years, the last rule got slightly reset to:

• Love is... the poor guy at the altar happily relinquishing marital bliss for the sake of puppy faced lover because... awww....

And so it went. Whether it was a big banner NRI wedding video or its cheap knockoff, the hero no longer bothered to propose marriage till the girl was properly attired for the ceremony. Even wedding guests got so used to the routine, their faces rarely registered surprise in the event of grooms getting swapped: notice the reactions on all of Kajol's sahelis in the climactic scene of Kuch Kuch Hota Hai. They are so damn relieved that Kajol was ditching Salman for the blast from her past, it's like... I mean, if I was invited to a wedding where the card says Bunty weds Babli, and then Bunty stops mid-ceremony and hands Babli over to his good friend Bunny, I'd be very, very confused. Unless I had an unreciprocated crush on Bunty.... anyway, I digress.

A nice twist to the last-minute groom swapping tradition came in Jab We Met. 

(Spoiler Alert for losers who don't want to know the denouement of a six-year-old movie) 

Here we have a girl, the guy she's supposed to want to marry, and the guy her family thinks she's going to marry, and all she has to do is to tell everyone that while the wedding preparations and decoration are spot on, they might want to change one of the names on the card in time to spare some unsuspecting guests a lot of confusion. The only problem is, she no longer wants to marry the guy she's supposed to want to marry, and wants to marry the guy her family thinks she's going to marry instead! Now that was a deliciously confusing conclusion to a simple love story if there ever was one. 

(End Spoiler Alert for losers who don't want to know the denouement of a six-year-old movie)

From all evidence, love stories are becoming more real, more relate-able now, where actions have consequences, locations are more earthy and matters of who marries whom are settled outside the Mandap.

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Coming back to Lootera...

I liked the somewhat bratty, strong headed heroine in Lootera as much as I liked its flawed hero. What I liked most, though, were the little things - like Barun Chanda's colonial accent, Vikrant Massey's no-head-bobbing Dev Anand impression, the haveli with its colonial knick-knacks and its lime-washed walls, and all those little details so lovingly compiled by Motwane.

Now some of my favorite critics have already given some beautiful reviews to this film, so I won't go into all that. Just sharing a few thoughts here.

The setting:
The first time Sujay suggested watching Lootera, I flippantly dismissed the idea - "Not another period film." The heavy costuming, the posturing, the affected speech from most characters, all the artificiality of your average period flick usually wears me out. It was a bit refreshing then, to see a lot of outdoors, bright & fresh colours and a Sonakshi with very little jewelry and brocade. I'm also glad that the two leads do not try too hard to fit into the period setting, and focus instead, on the story of these two people they're portraying, and their emotional journey.

I've mentioned before that I'm not a sucker for authenticity in my movies. My views were reinforced recently by the first half of Matru Ki... I am no more motivated to finish the movie than to finish typing its name here. All the hilarious sounding capers - and this film puts you through two crazy drunk scenes with the spectacularly talented Pankaj Kapur (one of them in a twin seater plane), a pink buffalo, a pink Navneet Nishan, a corrupt Shabana, a gorgeous Anushka, a buffoonish fiance, kidnapped zulu dancers, a flying Mao... all in the first half - just didn't do it for me. Perhaps because Imran, who is given an enviably complex role here, puts all his energy into the Haryanvi accent instead, which by the way sucked.

What I found in Lootera instead was just as much detail of the era as was necessitated by the story. The many little treasures in the old haveli of the landlord are also an important component of the story, and they walk out of the picture once they have played their part in catalyzing some key events. The lavishness here never tapers towards the obscene, and the buildings, the people, feel like people and stuff in a real world rather than the ghosts haunting one of SLB's blue-green studios, rehearsing the roles they were meant to play in the local Ram Lila before tragedy struck. It is interesting that Motwane has been mentored by the man Bhansali himself. If the ambiance of this film owes anything to said mentoring, then Motwane is the best kind of student out there, one who can really cherry-pick the best qualities of the mentor and thrash the rest.

O' Henry:
When I first read The Last Leaf, and during my many subsequent re-readings (I can never have enough of O' Henry, sue me) I often fantasized about turning that story into a film. I had even sketched out a possible adaptation, in which the girls would be struggling actresses living in a cheap apartment in Andheri, and the old man would be an out of work painter of film hoardings. So pardon me for being a little biased, but great choice of story there!

The chase scene:
Am I the only one who thought the chase scene in the second half was somewhat inspired by the one in Anurag Kashyap's Black Friday? The way Ranveer gradually wears out, how that messes up his orientation, how the inspector calls out to him by name, the initial assurance that gets drained out as he finds himself cornered... do read Baradwaj Rangan's piece where he has beautifully captured this part.

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So yeah, maybe watching a love story every once in a while may not be such a colossal waste of time. Now that Bollywood has some actual young people to act as young people, we might perhaps get more of these, and maybe, just maybe they won't turn into the assembly line products of the noughties too soon. Hopefully they won't be too much in the Hollywood template either (more on that later). Needless to say, Dr Horrible's Sing-Along Blog remains the greatest love story ever told.

Little Pink and the mountain of chocolate

Once upon a time, there was a little girl whose name nobody remembered. Some called her Little Pink Dupatta because of all the pink stuff she wore, while others called her Chocorella because she loved chocolate. But alas, she could not have chocolate more than once a day, lest she grow out of all her pretty pink outfits.
One day on her way back home from work, Little Pink chanced upon a pretty little chocolate shop. It was two hours to supper, so she went in and asked the kind old man at the counter for a cup of dark hot chocolate. "Do you want your chocolate in a cuddle cup," the old man asked. "Yes, please," replied Little Pink.
It was then that she saw a little sign behind the counter:
HOT PANCAKES, VANILLA OR CHOCOLATE, RS 99 ONLY!

That's wonderful, thought Little Pink, I can have a pancake here and won't have to make dinner. Aloud, she said, "I'll also have a pancake, please."
"Will that be Vanilla, or Chocolate?" asked the kind old man.
"Vanilla," replied Little Pink. I couldn't possibly have chocolate pancake with hot chocolate, she thought, because there is such a thing as too much chocolate, even for Chocorella.

Minutes later, as she was sipping the steaming hot dark chocolate out of a big white cuddle cup, the pancake arrived - and it was nothing like anything Little Pink had seen before.
The thin little vanilla pancake was doused in chocolate syrup, sprinkled with chocolate chips, and topped with a large scoop of chocolate ice cream. Little Pink almost shrieked at the thought of eating all that chocolate before the ice cream melted under the hot chocolate syrup. I couldn't possibly waste all that chocolate now, she thought as she got down to the task of eating that big mountain of chocolate in front of her, careful not to get any chocolate stains on her pretty pink dress, trying her best not to look like one of those disgusting Cadbury Dairy Milk Silk ads on TV.

An hour later, a weary little girl in pink got back to her little cabin in the woods, her little belly full of delicious hot chocolate and chocolate ice cream and vanilla pancake, and a look of tired satisfaction on her face. She went to bed early that evening, promising herself to stay away from chocolate for a while. And sure enough, she did not have another piece of chocolate for the next... 12 hours.

Moral of the story:
There is no such thing as too much chocolate.

P.S. At the time of this story, Chocorella was 30 years old, but she was still called Little Pink because she's... short.

Pink chaddi to you!

(Warning: angry, graphic, uncensored post dealing with unpleasant realities of my country. If you are easily offended or have a weak belly, do not read and do not post comments that are irrelevant to the matter of this blog. Comments are moderated.)

I am not a fan of protests and candlelight rallies. I try to keep away from mindless jingoism and shouting hoarse on issues when nothing is likely to come out of it. I don't believe hanging or castrating rapists is the solution. The present laws, I believe, are enough to deal with the crime, if only implemented. And yet, last Sunday, I joined the small group of students shouting anti-rape slogans at Azad Maidan in Mumbai. Because I don't know what else I can do.

Gory details of the heinous gang rape of a 23-year-old girl in Delhi refuse to leave my imagination. But even worse than the lump I feel in my throat every time I hear of her condition worsening, is the sickening realization that being thrown out in an unconscious state, so battered and bruised and unable to speak for herself, is what has earned her the sympathy of a nation and treatment in a hospital abroad on government tab. As pointed out very knowledgeably by a certain well-meaning female scientist, “Had the girl simply surrendered (and not resisted) when surrounded by six men, she would not have lost her intestine." And verily become another statistic.

Maybe she would have kept mum about the incident, gone back home and resigned herself to a life of shame in a small town that is quite unforgiving of its transgressing daughters. Somehow, what happened to her would have been seen as her own transgression. Or maybe she would have tried to register an FIR at the nearest police station, and the police officer would have blamed her for being out at an indecent hour wearing indecent clothes and bringing this on herself. She might even have been accused of trying to pass off a consensual orgy for rape, because that's the kind of things "these girls" do. By these girls, I mean girls nowadays who dress immodestly, interact freely with boys and eat too much chowmein. All those chowmein jokes don't sound so funny now, do they?

My scientist sister has even questioned the appropriateness of the girl being out at 10 pm with a guy. Rather than be angry at her, I'm angry at the fact that I can't completely dismiss her statement. Two days ago during a visit to my hometown, I was walking home after dinner at my uncle's house with two of my nieces, aged 10 and 13. I couldn't shake of a feeling of uneasiness and couldn't help question the wisdom of walking that one kilometer late in the evening with two young girls. This, in my home town, in the very streets I used to pass on my way to school since I was 7. 

But that's not even where that anguish begins. The one trigger, one comment that has disturbed me the most, that haunts me and gnaws at my sanity was from a conversation I overheard among some female colleagues in office more than a week ago.

Three very modestly dressed women in my office were discussing the relative garishness of girls in Delhi, and the conversation quickly moved to the gang rape incident. One of them suggested that it is quite likely that this girl who was out at the ungodly hour (according to the victim, it was actually 9:30 pm when she boarded the bus. Yes, you can't be safe on our streets at 9:30 pm!) was probably "at it" with her boyfriend, the sight of which aroused the men into action. The lady who made this statement is a doctor.

If you are that lady, I'm sorry to report a bit of conversation that I wasn't even part of, but I couldn't turn a deaf ear that day. I'm sorry I'm venting it out here on a public blog instead of talking to you and updating you on the actual facts of the case, but I can barely look at you any more. I cannot tell you how much your words, that weren't about me or even addressed to me, have hurt me. I worry for your daughter, and more so for the son you might have some day, who'll grow up on the values you pass on to him. I worry that he'll grow up thinking that if a woman doesn't live up to his ideals of good dressing and modest behavior, then he would be forgiven for molesting her, defiling her and impaling her with an iron rod. He might do all this, secure in the knowledge that his mother approves.

So while I know that my shouting "Stop Rape" at passers-by outside CST, lighting candles, or a parliamentary session to debate capital punishment for rapists, or even the harshest punishment to the accused in this case may not change much in our country, and there will always be sick people among us doing sick things to women, I still stood there among the protesters that day. If an equivalent of the inane pink chaddi campaign is launched to make a statement against rape, I'll mail a piece of innerwear to whoever they're all mailing it to. Not because I think mailing undergarments will change the world. Just to announce that even though I'm helpless to help 'Amanat' and the thousands of girls like her, even though I'm clueless as to what I can do to change anything around me, even though I don't know how to channelize my anger to make anyone's life better, even as more incidents reported every day are slowly chipping away at my free spirit and my confidence, the one thing I do know is whose side I'm on.

Oh. My. God!

Not related to the post, but you can't say Oh My God without thinking of Janice.

I'm something of a food snob - I hate substitute ingredients and short-cut procedures. Now when this friend claims that she can whip up chicken biryani in less than half an hour, I can instantly see how. She's taken the vegetables, spices, chicken and rice and cooked it all together. In other words, made a chicken khichdi. Not the real deal, but nice and spicy (actually hot). And most people who eat it, appreciate it.

Me, I need my biryani to be more textured, with plain rice and flavoured rice and meat and gravy playing hide-and-seek in my mouth, subtle and sharp spices making their presence known. But then, I'm a food snob. Better people than I, the high thinking, simple living sorts will appreciate the aforementioned chicken khichdi as a tasty, rich, nourishing dish. Just like better people than I can appreciate OMG - Oh My God.

The good people will point out that this is one of the rare films in recent times with a Message. They'll also point out how it has a Different Story, in that there is no central romantic plot to grab audience's attention, and how the Story is supplemented by Good Performances. To all these points I must agree.

Atheism is a difficult subject to present on film, not only in India, but anywhere in the world. Let's be honest -  how many mainstream Hollywood productions feature an atheist as the hero? The leading men and women may not be religious people, but that is mostly written off as laziness or indifference rather than defiance of religion. There might be some occasional smirking at organised religion or clergymen or religious fanatics, but never at religion itself. And hardly ever is there a serious discussion about the very idea of God. In Indian films too, the nastik does make an occasional appearance, but even in a film titled Nastik, atheism is, to quote Jai Arjun: 

"...more a case of “bhagwaan se katti hoon” – I’m not on speaking terms with Him because He allowed bad things to happen to my family." 

So it is refreshing, to say the least, to even hear such a term as "Saccha Nastik" in one of the more lucid moments of OMG. The rest of the film, alas, is like all the ingredients of biryani thrown into a pressure cooker for a quick dinner.

I cannot conscientiously call it a bad film - being agnostic myself (and Paresh Rawal's character is agnostic, not atheist), I'm thankful someone dared to come up with this subject at a time when prime time television feeds us superstition and the most ridiculous manifestations of religiosity in steady doses. In a world where filmmakers are forced to delete Mochi from a song and Barber from a film title and digitally change saffron head-bands to black, it is no small feat to make thinly veiled references to actual cult leaders of our times.

But what's with the terrible scripting and tacky editing? With a cast of commendable actors, a powerful concept such as this film has, it is criminal to mete out such shoddy execution to what could have been a milestone in Indian film history. In tip-toeing through a minefield of religious sentiments, the director has wasted all the potential for dark humour and surrealism he had in his hands and opted instead for what looks like 150 minutes out of a SAB TV comedy.

For most of the first half, Paresh Rawal wisecracks about religion and everybody around him appears shocked. Govind Namdeo as a saffron clad religious leader cannot keep his voice down and we're treated to multiple shots of his underarms. Mithun as a more senior, white robed leader is more subdued, and his dark glances hint at someone more sinister, more complex and more perceptive underneath the amicable, effeminate, magic-tricks-displaying Godman - but that complexity is never fully played out. None of the other characters are worth mentioning. Except for God.

*Omitted: about 300 words on how Akshay Kumar plays a bizarrely inconsistent version of God displaying a curious Jaani Dushman hangover in what could have been his most interesting role so far*

I may be wasting my breath talking about the film that this could have been rather than the film that it is. But the glimpses of a better, more intelligent film behind the dull final product here are too bright and too beautiful to ignore. I'm still glad someone made this film and thank them for having the balls. The film does say a lot of gutsy things, and I'm glad someone said those things on celluloid. Just like I was happy for 3 Idiots - it said a lot of right things, but I cannot bring myself to appreciate the garbage surrounding the good message, nor forgive Hirani for screwing up Chetan Bhagat's only good work.

I'll be very happy if a lot of people watch OMG and at least some of them take the message seriously. Me, I'm a snob and I can't help but notice that what could have been the next Jaane Bhi Do Yaaro - a wake-up-and-smell-the-coffee kind of sad, funny, dark satire - ended up being another Billu Barber. Well-cooked, wholesome and nourishing, but nowhere close to the masterpiece that could be crafted with the same ingredients.

What a sad, sad loss to cinema.

P.S. I know the film is adapted from a play, but I'm not interested in how good or how bad the play was. The film needs to stand on its own feet, which in my narrow opinion it fails to do.

* Real biryani is prepared with meat; Veg Biryani is just a ruse invented by Udupi restaurants to sell you a slightly more sophisticated form of Khichdi. So if you've always been vegetarian, you've never tasted biryani - small price to pay for the purity of soul and animal-lover-eggless-brownie points.

And now for something completely different...

Disclaimer:

Author has no allegiance to any political party or personal vendetta against anyone. This comic has been posted in good humour without intentionally wanting to hurt the sentiments of any particular group and should hopefully be taken as such. If however, the above artwork happens to hurt someone, the author hopes they will find it in their hearts to forgive and forget, because as far as the author is aware, all fans of Calvin & Hobbes are really very cool people.

Realism as conceit, exhibit A

Long, indulgent post this, but it is one of those subjects I could go on and on about... which is basically what I've done here.

The subject of what comprises 'realism' in cinema has long intrigued me. No 'intelligent' conversation around films is complete without the obligatory running down of some popular entertainers from some overrated filmmakers against the under-appreciated, realistic, gritty fares from some under-appreciated filmmakers. I almost threw up in my mouth once when the day's realistic, under-appreciated film in focus was announced.

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Raj Kapoor for some people falls into the aforementioned over-rated category, both as an actor and director. I tuned into Zee Classic today just in time to catch the song Pyaar Hua, Ikraar Hua... from Shree 420 and the question of how much of the classic scenes unfolding on screen would be counted as real and what made them so effective, so endearing and immortal popped in my head. Sure, you were no more likely to run into someone dressed like Charlie Chaplin's iconic tramp on the streets of Mumbai in 1955, any more than you are now. I've often heard Raj Kapoor, and this film dismissed with a simplistic, "Oh, Raj Kapoor? He just copied Charlie Chaplin."

That song may not be the beacon of realism in cinema. It looks like it is mostly shot in a studio, and the rain probably came from a hose or whatever they use to simulate rain in movies. But the look on Nargis's face as she reluctantly agrees to share an umbrella with the lovable tramp is one of the most real expressions of barely acknowledged love I've seen. Later, as the lovers walk away singing in the rain under their shared umbrella, the camera pans to a roadside chaiwaala (or was it a beggar?), and for a few seconds focuses on his wizened face as it lights up at the sight of young romance.

Soon enough, the reverie is broken as Raju gets his own dose of reality - he's forgotten the heated iron in the laundry where he works, and sure enough, there has been a minor fire incident back at the workplace. A couple minutes of Chaplinisque slapstick with a fire extinguisher later, he is slapped with a whopping Rs 10 fine AND asked to work on the coming Sunday. Thus we are dragged out of the dreamy romance and into the plot of the story, where it is clear that Raju isn't a good laundry worker - he was after all meant for bigger things. The Sunday penalty also innocently steers us towards the next big event in Raju's life: his meeting with the sensuous Nadira, which will turn out to be just the lucky break he needed to make it in the big bad city.

This entire sequence - and the following sequence involving a game of poker - might be a textbook study on how to weave in romance, drama and comedy to make the narrative interesting. Things don't move along at nearly the same pace in real life, but as storytelling goes, it is a very satisfying experience.

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I have said before on this blog that realistic portrayal of any and everything isn't an end in itself. I didn't enjoy the art films as a kid and I thought I'd learn to appreciate them as I grew up. Now while I 'get' some of those films better, I'm still not a fan of anything that got dished out as parallel cinema. A lot of people are now agreeing that while there are some shining examples of the minimal style of movie making that evolved in the 80s, there were many forgettable films which tried passing off boring as artistic. I'm certainly not paying to watch a director's indulgence in what he considers good cinema at the cost of two hours of my life. I need my cinema to entertain me.

'Entertainment' may seem a shallow word here. The greatest cinematic moments that stay with us long after we first encountered them may not all come under the generic umbrella of entertainment. We all have our favorite bitter, sweet, sad, funny, sentimental moments from our most beloved films. More often than not, our memory these cinematic moments is about the emotions they evoke. Whether it is just a hint of terror you first felt as Gabbar's shadow falls on Thakur's hapless grandson, or the genuine laughter Rohit Shetty was able to elicit, or for that matter the sadness at watching Kamal Hassan limping after Sridevi's coach in Sadma.

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If you're honest to yourself, any kind of cinema ultimately works on an emotional level, even the so-called intellectual cinema - if that is even a thing. The intellectual bit of it is just to cut through the viewer's sense of what is real or fake, smart or silly and reach the emotional core. Hence Jaane Bhi Do Yaaro nods to your cynicism and goes ahead and makes you laugh at the outrageous Mahabharat scene. Sholay pays some lip service to the question of whether countering violence with violence is the solution - the word Ahimsa is thrown into the conversation - before taking you to the satisfactory blood drenched climax (or at least as blood drenched as the censors allowed it to be).

The truth is, the success of any film lies on its ability to manipulate you, the viewer into feeling some or the other form of emotion. Kuch Kuch Hota Hai wouldn't work if by the time of the climactic wedding, audience isn't rooting for Kajol to chose the moron over the good guy. How often have we immersed ourselves into the story of the moron and eventually heaved a sigh of relief as he gets away with everything he doesn't deserve, be it money, fame, success, redemption, or the trophy girl? 'Emotionally manipulative' is a term I often see in a lot of film blogs these days, as if it is a bad thing. Manipulation is really the name of the game here.

So how does realism figure in this business of manipulation? Obviously, as a manipulative device. You aren't going to buy into any of that drama if none of it felt real, are you?

The premise of Sridevi's temporary amnesia in Sadma may be illogical and absurd in itself, but it forms the backdrop for a very unusual emotional experiment - what if you fell for someone who'd eventually forget you? What makes the film haunting is how convincingly it builds upon this premise. Convincing is the key word here, which makes the difference between intensely sad and outrageously farcical. And without Kamal Hassan's wonderful performance, nobody would buy into the sadness of the absurd, unreal premise.

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No matter what the genre, a bit of realism is what helps the proceedings on screen cut through the layers of thought to tap into your emotions. This is true even of those genres you wouldn't think of associating with realism - horror, fantasy, science fiction, for example. One of the rare effective horror films in India, Bhoot managed to scare me (yes, I was scared watching Bhoot, go laugh) by suggesting how those terrifying supernatural things could be lurking right there in your plush little South Bombay apartment, and you could run into one without the trouble of travelling out of town to some spooky Haveli. Why, they could be watching over your shoulder even as you snooze off in front of the TV - something I do a lot. Some of the spookiest moments from the Grudge films happen in a hotel room, a school principal's office and a public bus - places any of us could be in any given day. 

That to me, is how reality is best used for cinematic purposes: to lure you into a believable world just enough to pull the carpet from right under your feet in a way only cinema can.

I just edited out a few lines about the original Star Trek here, to which my brother-in-law recently introduced me. I was clearly out of my league there. I also edited out Harry Potter for the sake of brevity and Madhur Bhandarkar for the sake of sanity.