Why We Hate Bhadralok Who Make It Big Abroad
This one’s a piece from a weekly column–one of several–I used to write.
This particular column was called Footsie and it appeared in The Sunday Pioneer, edited by Chandan Mitra.
It was one of the last columns I quit and one of the only columns I actually regretted stopping, not only because Mitra is an excellent editor and deserves all the support he can get, but because they gave me the freedom to write anything about anybody, no holds barred.
But I was determined to quit column-writing and focus on books. And am glad I did.
For one thing, I have nothing but utmost contempt for column-writers, especially the kind who pose for pics that appear with their columns and pontificate on everything under the sun, even if they don’t have an opinion worth sharing.
Perhaps the worst columnists in the country appear in Bombay’s own Times of India group of newspapers–I include the main Times of India, Bombay Times and Mumbai Mirror in that list.
They’re the most sycophantic, pandering, opportunistic bunch of people masquerading as journalists you’ll find.
But their columns serve an essential environmental function, without which the very ecology of the world would be endangered:
They’re perfect for toilet paper.
Especially the ones with the pictures of the columnists…rub, rub, rubadub-dub.
Ahem.
Coming back to this column…I never claimed to be the only decent columnist around. No, sir. I did it for the money, and because I was too lazy to get a real job–like becoming a bar dancer!
But at least I loved writing, and I wasn’t afraid to voice an opinion, even if it meant pissing off somebody important–or impotent!
This is one of my milder ones, no doubt written on a sunnier day.
In time I’ll put up some of the really ‘righteously angry’ ones, and you’ll get to judge for yourself whether I was any better or worse than the toilet-paper-writers I was railing against a moment ago.
But right now, let’s play mental footsie…
FOOTSIE
Ashok Banker
Night and Day
Talking to a well-known film director and the talk turned to Manoj Shyamalan. Or M. Night Shyamalan as he calls himself. The nub of the talk was about Night’s recent headline-making sale of his new script, Signs, for an alleged record fee. Apparently the highest fee ever paid for an original screenplay in Hollywood.
And since nobody pays more than Hollywood, the highest paid in the world. And if the newspaper reports are to believed, the fee is in the astronomical eight-figure region. Which means, over $10 million. Which in turn means over Rs 46 crores at today’s exchange rates.
That’s more than double the budget of the average big budget Hindi feature film. It’s about as much as a superhit Hindi film could expect to earn after all counts are in. It’s more than a mega film star–like Hrithik, Shah Rukh or Amitabh, the big Trimurti–get paid for a dozen movies. And as far as Hindi film scripts are concerned, hell, it’s probably more than the total sum paid for ALL scripts for ALL the Hindi films ever made in the history of Hindi cinema!
I pointed these facts out. I also pointed out the fact that I admired the hell out of Night, not only for his first two films, which I thought were excellent, but for his career success, which spelt great hope for all Indian talent worldwide.
Yet, the Hindi film director didn’t like it. In fact, he didn’t approve of Night Shyamalan’s success at all. Genuinely puzzled, I asked him why. He sniffed and made an elaborate argument revolving around superstition. He felt that films like The Sixth Sense and Unbreakable promoted superstition.
What? I asked him to explain that. He did. I still couldn’t figure him out. But to do him justice, he seemed to feel that films like this–in which category he included even horror films like Blair Witch and Stephen King novels–were regressive and anti-science.
I saw his point. But I also made a point of my own. All the movies and books he was pointing to were fiction, not fact. Nobody claimed they were about reality. Least of all Night Shyamalan himself. They were simply entertainment, and millions of intelligent people worldwide, including otherwise scientifically minded ones like myself, watched and enjoyed them hugely.
He stuck to his guns. Fine. That’s his privilege. But I soon found that he wasn’t the only one. The Hindi film industry at large has only one of two reactions to Night Shyamalan’s success: Either they say “Who? Who’s that? Never heard of him” or they discredit him.
It’s the same story with Shekhar Kapur. Or Om Puri, who has managed to carve a small but significant niche for himself with a succession of minor roles in major films, and major roles in minor hits. Or any other Indian who achieves any level of success internationally.
Is it just peer rivalry? To some extent, yes. The film industry is as jealous a place as any other. And as we all know, we Indians hate to watch one of our own actually make it big.
But there’s another aspect to it.
There’s also the deep-felt desire to be recognized by white people. By gora saabs. By Western critics, professionals, audiences. The most Hollywood-obsessed people in Bombay are the film industry folks themselves. They measure everything against their American counterparts. If you can even call them counterparts. This was always a major malaise. But of late it seems to have become an incurable disease.
And so, when one of our own, brown-skinned, desi chokras or chokris actually hits the big money button in Hollywood, they can’t stand it. Because it proves that they’re just cheap imitations living in the shadow of the big daddy. Copying shamelessly, imitating endlessly, emulating nauseatingly.
So when a Night Shyamalan or a Shekhar Kapur or any of our other brethren succeed over there. And succeed in a maha-major way. Our local bhidoos can’t stand it. They seethe. They froth. They ferment. And they bitch, bitch, bitch. You can bet your bottom dollar that after the news of Night Shyamalan hit the headlines, every Bollywood hotshot was burning with envy.
Because they know, deep down, that they can never ever succeed like Shyamalan did. Because to do that, they would have to actually do something meaningful and original. Not just copy, copy, copy.
And if they could do that, they’d be doing it. Not making endless remakes of Pretty Woman and Indecent Proposal and denying their links to the underworld while getting caught red-handed dealing with the same underworld.
Salaam, Night Shyamalan. Salaam, Shekhar Kapur. Salaam to every Indian who attempts to make it in the enormously challenging world of Hollywood entertainment. Salaam, Indian success. Those who will, do. Those who can’t, imitate.
This entry was posted on Thursday, September 1st, 2005 at 6:03 pm. It is filed under Ashok.
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