Friday is Judgement Day for Bollywood.
Film ‘trials’ are so appropriately named. If you’re an outsider, it is indeed a trial to sit through them. But if you can ignore the actual film, and indulge in people-watching, you can have a terrific time. It’s a chance to watch our film community in action. A kind of Nat Geo of Bollywood. It’s not just the stars that you get to watch. You can sink into your seat, and watch the whole breed in action: directors, writers, producers, fight-masters, financiers…
Their natural habitat is not the premieres and muhurats, studios and shooting locations, where you usually get to see them. Their haunts are their story-session rooms and trial theatres. Here you will see a real display of all the characteristics of this fascinating creature. (While a few young turks may be trying very hard to bring ‘corporate culture’ to Bollywood, they are a tiny minority.) Life for the breed, as a whole, goes something like this:
Work begins deep in the ghetto - Versova, Yari Road, Bandra, Lokhandwala. They assemble at somebody's office or at a north Bombay hotel for a 'story-sitting'. Present at this place are usually script writer, director, producer, the star, financier, cameraman, action director. And then there are several hanger-ons - whose precise function is never apparent. Some may be star-minders, others may be appointed only to hold the star's cell-phone; another may be there purely to entertain a starlet-mom. They are a bafflingly amorphous lot, obviously gainfully employed doing something.
Food, chai, cold drinks and gutka in place, the story-sitting gets under way. Rarely or never is there a written script which each person involved has read before arriving at the meeting. Here the written word is not so important - it is the hoary past of our oral tradition that is at play. The story writer simply has to be a great narrator. Since potential producers, directors and financiers and actors often have only a nodding acquaintance with the printed word, they have to be narrated to, like they are children. It is not uncommon to see a story writer virtually acting out the whole script, particularly the juicy bits, that will sell his story. This includes shouting, weeping, going down on knees, punching the air, singing bits of song, and much onomatopoeia: "barish gir rahi hai….shhhhhhrrrrrrr" …"jeep explode hoti hai….bhummmmm…" and such like.
Attention spans being notoriously short in the film industry, the story writer must pull out every trick in the book to sell his story - or risk having the financier lose interest and simply getting on to his phone and talking to someone in the Amsterdam bourse. Or there’s the risk of the star beginning to get restless and preening in front of any reflecting surface. However, if the storywriter does manage to catch the attention of this audience, the room will ring with exclamations of: "Wahhhhh, kya situation hai, sir ji! Mindblowing sir, maaaaindblowing.! Aap nay toa rula diya sahab!"
The concept accepted, it will now be fertilized with some serious money, and the film is on its way to being made. Possibly one of the most superstitious of people, the film-wallah will hedge his bets at every stage with prayer, ritual, fast, pilgrimage, numerology, vaastu, feng shui, lucky colours, auspicious alphabets…you name it. Anything to keep the gods of the superhit smiling.
Shooting can take from 6 months to over 3 years, with units going off to Sri Lanka or Alaska, complete with huge stocks of rajma and chawal and cooks to make them. Even a shoot in Tamil Nadu entails carrying food bandobast – “because udhar toa sirf idli-dosa milta hai”. Thousands of years of Dakshin cooking dismissed through a mouthful of paratha.
Once what they call principal shooting has been completed, the herd gathers at a north-Bombay preview theatre for a 'trial' show. It's time to review the 'rushes' and see whether the entire song and dance hangs together and tells a tale. While the principal stakeholders in the film will watch it with all the love and admiration one showers on the antics of a grandchild, a few other invited members of the audience could well find the exercise a trial and a tribulation.
However, there is a subtle, unwritten code that means you will simply NOT speak your mind. You don’t get to say: “Ok, now we sat through your trial, now we hope there’s going to be a hanging.” During the interval, there is that awkward 10 minutes when you may find yourself hard-pressed to come up with some diplomatic responses. Here are a few stock, safe strategies, distilled over the ages:
a) If the film is so bad that you are close to having huge laughing fits even during the key dramatic scenes, or are having uncontrollable sleep attacks (the kind that make your head give up the pretence and simply slump to one side), you pretend to receive an urgent call on the cell phone, make hurried excuses and flea the spot.
b) If it's so bad that you hope that the director or actor or script writer's body guard will suddenly run amok and riddle him with bullets, grimly stick it out till the end. You may get lucky and get to watch this actually happen.
c) If it's so bad that you begin to lose all hope in the Indian aesthetic and the Indian IQ, but your friend is one of the crew members, you simply hang in there, catch up secretly on your SMS backlog, and at the end of it all, come out and hug the person concerned and say "luvvved your work". This is a safe way out of praising the entire film.
d) If it's so bad that you don’t know what to say at all to anyone, you simply indulge in much guffawing and bear-hugging and exclamations like "Papayy!" and "Puttarr". You can even go so far as to say: "Hit hai, sirji. Hit film banai hai aapnay." A safer strategy: just make a wordless thumbs-up signs to everyone concerned. And then go home happy in the knowledge that it won't last a week in the theatres.
e) If it's so bad that you feel obliged to give sincere and honest feedback, chances are that the director will airily reply: "Array sahab, usko editing table pey theek kar lenge." or "Array sahab, maaf kijiye, yey aap jaisay intellectuals kay liye film nahi hai." And that will be that. So much for honest feedback.
On some auspicious Friday, the film will open at theatres, where the filmwallah will go to gauge 'audience reaction' and to watch the box office nervously. That's really Judgement Day. When all work, calculations, prayers, formulas and hype can be dismissed by the man on the street with one little nod and click of the tongue: "Bekar hai". Feedback can't get more honest and more final than that.
Film ‘trials’ are so appropriately named. If you’re an outsider, it is indeed a trial to sit through them. But if you can ignore the actual film, and indulge in people-watching, you can have a terrific time. It’s a chance to watch our film community in action. A kind of Nat Geo of Bollywood. It’s not just the stars that you get to watch. You can sink into your seat, and watch the whole breed in action: directors, writers, producers, fight-masters, financiers…
Their natural habitat is not the premieres and muhurats, studios and shooting locations, where you usually get to see them. Their haunts are their story-session rooms and trial theatres. Here you will see a real display of all the characteristics of this fascinating creature. (While a few young turks may be trying very hard to bring ‘corporate culture’ to Bollywood, they are a tiny minority.) Life for the breed, as a whole, goes something like this:
Work begins deep in the ghetto - Versova, Yari Road, Bandra, Lokhandwala. They assemble at somebody's office or at a north Bombay hotel for a 'story-sitting'. Present at this place are usually script writer, director, producer, the star, financier, cameraman, action director. And then there are several hanger-ons - whose precise function is never apparent. Some may be star-minders, others may be appointed only to hold the star's cell-phone; another may be there purely to entertain a starlet-mom. They are a bafflingly amorphous lot, obviously gainfully employed doing something.
Food, chai, cold drinks and gutka in place, the story-sitting gets under way. Rarely or never is there a written script which each person involved has read before arriving at the meeting. Here the written word is not so important - it is the hoary past of our oral tradition that is at play. The story writer simply has to be a great narrator. Since potential producers, directors and financiers and actors often have only a nodding acquaintance with the printed word, they have to be narrated to, like they are children. It is not uncommon to see a story writer virtually acting out the whole script, particularly the juicy bits, that will sell his story. This includes shouting, weeping, going down on knees, punching the air, singing bits of song, and much onomatopoeia: "barish gir rahi hai….shhhhhhrrrrrrr" …"jeep explode hoti hai….bhummmmm…" and such like.
Attention spans being notoriously short in the film industry, the story writer must pull out every trick in the book to sell his story - or risk having the financier lose interest and simply getting on to his phone and talking to someone in the Amsterdam bourse. Or there’s the risk of the star beginning to get restless and preening in front of any reflecting surface. However, if the storywriter does manage to catch the attention of this audience, the room will ring with exclamations of: "Wahhhhh, kya situation hai, sir ji! Mindblowing sir, maaaaindblowing.! Aap nay toa rula diya sahab!"
The concept accepted, it will now be fertilized with some serious money, and the film is on its way to being made. Possibly one of the most superstitious of people, the film-wallah will hedge his bets at every stage with prayer, ritual, fast, pilgrimage, numerology, vaastu, feng shui, lucky colours, auspicious alphabets…you name it. Anything to keep the gods of the superhit smiling.
Shooting can take from 6 months to over 3 years, with units going off to Sri Lanka or Alaska, complete with huge stocks of rajma and chawal and cooks to make them. Even a shoot in Tamil Nadu entails carrying food bandobast – “because udhar toa sirf idli-dosa milta hai”. Thousands of years of Dakshin cooking dismissed through a mouthful of paratha.
Once what they call principal shooting has been completed, the herd gathers at a north-Bombay preview theatre for a 'trial' show. It's time to review the 'rushes' and see whether the entire song and dance hangs together and tells a tale. While the principal stakeholders in the film will watch it with all the love and admiration one showers on the antics of a grandchild, a few other invited members of the audience could well find the exercise a trial and a tribulation.
However, there is a subtle, unwritten code that means you will simply NOT speak your mind. You don’t get to say: “Ok, now we sat through your trial, now we hope there’s going to be a hanging.” During the interval, there is that awkward 10 minutes when you may find yourself hard-pressed to come up with some diplomatic responses. Here are a few stock, safe strategies, distilled over the ages:
a) If the film is so bad that you are close to having huge laughing fits even during the key dramatic scenes, or are having uncontrollable sleep attacks (the kind that make your head give up the pretence and simply slump to one side), you pretend to receive an urgent call on the cell phone, make hurried excuses and flea the spot.
b) If it's so bad that you hope that the director or actor or script writer's body guard will suddenly run amok and riddle him with bullets, grimly stick it out till the end. You may get lucky and get to watch this actually happen.
c) If it's so bad that you begin to lose all hope in the Indian aesthetic and the Indian IQ, but your friend is one of the crew members, you simply hang in there, catch up secretly on your SMS backlog, and at the end of it all, come out and hug the person concerned and say "luvvved your work". This is a safe way out of praising the entire film.
d) If it's so bad that you don’t know what to say at all to anyone, you simply indulge in much guffawing and bear-hugging and exclamations like "Papayy!" and "Puttarr". You can even go so far as to say: "Hit hai, sirji. Hit film banai hai aapnay." A safer strategy: just make a wordless thumbs-up signs to everyone concerned. And then go home happy in the knowledge that it won't last a week in the theatres.
e) If it's so bad that you feel obliged to give sincere and honest feedback, chances are that the director will airily reply: "Array sahab, usko editing table pey theek kar lenge." or "Array sahab, maaf kijiye, yey aap jaisay intellectuals kay liye film nahi hai." And that will be that. So much for honest feedback.
On some auspicious Friday, the film will open at theatres, where the filmwallah will go to gauge 'audience reaction' and to watch the box office nervously. That's really Judgement Day. When all work, calculations, prayers, formulas and hype can be dismissed by the man on the street with one little nod and click of the tongue: "Bekar hai". Feedback can't get more honest and more final than that.
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