Between Reviews: Mystifying Hysteria

Posted on June 26, 2010

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MYSTIFYING HYSTERIA

Why do we get so worked up, so indignant, so personal when a filmmaker makes a film we don’t quite expect?

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JUN 27, 2010 – THE HYSTERICAL REACTIONS TO RAAVAN suggest that Mani Ratnam has, overnight, been invaded by the spirit of Ed Wood, thus making the worst movie ever made in the annals of worst movies. On one level, though, this clamour is entirely expected. Shaad Ali, some years ago, made Bunty Aur Babli, whose desi-ghee wholesomeness was embraced by everyone. Then, for his next outing, when he settled on the camembert-flavoured Jhoom Barabar Jhoom, similarly hysterical reactions lay in wait. Sanjay Leela Bhansali played the audience like a finely tuned Stradivarius with Black. But when, with Saawariya, he took on a chilly love story treated as a baroque musical, similarly hysterical reactions lay in wait. Anurag Kashyap was feted for the gritty dramatics of Black Friday, but when, next, he delved into the surreal Kafka-world of No Smoking, or when Rakeysh Omprakash Mehra followed up Rang De Basanti with Delhi-6, similarly hysterical reactions lay in wait.

See the pattern? These are not lazily made films. Even if they do not work at a personal level, they’re undeniably works of vision and ambition and daring. Why, then, were they treated like witches in Salem, hounded by drooling lynch mobs from press and public? Why were they denied a fair trial, with the facts for and against dispassionately discussed? Instead, why were they banished, outright, to box-office bonfires?

One reason is surely the expectation carried into a film. However much we attempt to resist the onslaught of pre-release hype, when slick promos indicate that we’re getting a juicy kidnap drama, a genre thriller with enough star wattage to light up the village in Swades, it’s difficult to accept a darkly eccentric psychodrama. The Raavan that audiences were promised was not the Raavan they saw, just as the No Smoking they walked in for, on the strength of the booty-shaking promo with Bipasha Basu, was not the No Smoking they got.

Had the Raavan promos revolved less around songs and dances and focused, for instance, on the psychedelic petroleum paintings that haunt the opening credits, and had the promise been that of “a Mani Ratnam you’ve never seen before,” audiences might have reprogrammed themselves accordingly, abandoning expectations of the middle-of-the-road moviegoing pleasures of a Mouna Raagam or a Guru. Because we do live in an era where genuinely challenging films like Dev.D and Kaminey are greeted with warm applause, if not all over the country then at least by the pockets paved with plexes. And Raavan is a multiplex movie, no doubt about that. How could it not be when the Sita figure tells Raavan that she’ll stay behind if he’ll desist from killing her Ram, not only because she wants to save her husband but also because she’s, by now, captivated by her captor?

But leave aside this possibility for a minute, this supposition that had audiences been primed differently, they would have processed the film differently. Let’s talk about the cross that directors have to bear when they are successful. We expect them to turn into an assembly line, tossing out shiny new objects from the same old moulds.

From Bunty Aur Babli, we assume that Shaad Ali is this kind of director, and that he’ll make this kind of movie that will entertain us in this fashion, and when Jhoom Barabar Jhoom confounds these expectations, we turn hysterical to a ludicrously disproportionate extent that belies the basic fact that this is, at the end of the day, just a movie. If it doesn’t measure up, just shrug your shoulders and head home, instead of foaming at the mouth as if the filmmaker had wooed the wife away from you and subsequently decamped with your pension funds. And Twitter, along with the blogosphere, only makes it worse. Within seconds, your followers know about your runaway wife and your gloomy retirement, and they pick up cudgels on your behalf, and soon, the rabbits begin to multiply until the burrow explodes.

At some point, we’ve got to sit down and think that cinema, too, is subject to Sir Francis Bacon’s dictum. Some films are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested. And with the latter category, the Twittering and the blogging (and even the reviewing) will have to wait until the chewing and digesting is complete. We see foreign films that are challenging and whose rhythms take time getting used to, and accordingly, we view them with respect. Why don’t we extend a similar courtesy to our own filmmakers, our own films?

The problem with these ridiculously extreme reactions is that they will dissuade younger, less established filmmakers who are cautiously eyeing the edge of the envelope, wondering if the time is right for a push. Yes, we are a passionate people, and we burn effigies of cricket captains when they lose matches. But aren’t the enlightened elite who talk about cinema – in reviews, on Twitter, on blogs – supposed to know better than the man on the street? The latter, at least, has an excuse. At the close of a hard workday, he demands that he gets his hard-earned money’s worth of easy entertainment. But how are we, sitting in front of our laptops, justified in adopting this stance? Let’s insist that promos be crafted to reflect the tone and tenor of films. But let’s give films a chance. If we find them lacking, let’s lay out our contentions, our analysis, in calm prose. But please, let’s put aside the pitchforks.

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