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Art. Realism. Truth. Vision. Commitment. Belief. For years, niche
filmmakers have doggedly championed the cause of the other cinema. The cinema
has been propagated as clean, honest, meaningful, artistic and life-enhancing
by its passionate devotees. Its aesthete is sans the tinsel thunder of stars,
gaudy elaborate sets, foreign locales or obscenely expensive budgets. It has
that elusive magic of feeling and warmth that touches the soul and does not
merely dazzle the eyes. It does not sell dreams, but portrays the power, truth
and beauty of Indian reality — warts and all.
For around a decade (early 1970s to early 1980s) this cinema came, saw
and even conquered the hearts of its select audience, winning loyalty and
patronage. Hugely supported by an enthusiastic press, it was projected as the
“New Cinema,” with freshness inscribed on every frame. Its filmmakers were
hymned and celebrated.
So
far, so good.
The
problem started when some of these films began drawing special attention,
making a name, doing a modest killing at the box office, but most importantly
going on to win national and international awards. Overnight, these “strugglers”
began to strike poses, mouth hi-fallutin’
platitudes, superciliously talking about how they were now a part of
international cinema, and of course, trashing the mainstream product,
Bollywood.
But
why this hostility toward a cinema that has an unimaginably large fan-base
across the globe? An industry with a mind-boggling investment-base of millions
in technology and infrastructure? A cinema that in glitz and hype is probably
second only to Hollywood?
Most importantly, a cinema that frankly couldn’t
give a damn about the existence of a movement that posed it no threat?
Let’s
face it. Over the years, Bollywood has shaped and fed the never-ending
fantasies of its fans. It has done it without pretensions, with the least fuss
and frippery, focusing all its skills and resources toward fulfilling a single
objective: uncomplicated entertainment. Win some, lose some, Bollywood has been
true to its one-point agenda, never pretending to evoke the spirit of the
nouvelle vague, or spouting Bresson and Renais like they were brothers under
the skin!
Their gods were made-in-India — Raj Kapoor, Guru Dutt, Mehboob Khan,
Raj Khosla, Vijay Anand, Manmohan Desai, Prakash Mehra, Ramesh Sippy. None of
them consciously considered themselves a part of world cinema. They never had
any illusions about winning awards at hot-shot international film fests —
although the Oscar nomination for Lagaan seduced
their appetite.
Only when severely provoked has Bollywood fired a broadside at the
other (Bhookha-Nanga)
cinema. By and large, however, the industry sticks to its basic mission of
making movies (not ci-ne-ma) as hardcore entertainment for the masses,
committed to raking in the loot, or at least break-even on investment. It does
not see itself as an art form, propaganda vehicle or an artistic form of
self-expression. The industry has no axe to grind and nothing to prove except
box office success. Going by Bollywood’s
uncontested domination over the public imagination and sensibilities (ever
noticed how even the corniest film-oriented programs on TV score hugely over “meaningful”
ones) they must be doing something right!
And that is precisely where it hurts the arty brigade. How can this
crass, untutored and vulgar cinema, constantly catering to the lowest common
denominator, cornering precious resources, spending obscene money on stuff with
an erratic strike-rate at the box-office, continue to thrive while these
“geniuses” are overlooked, neglected and ignored? If only someone gave them
that one (just-one) chance, they’d show these damn Bollywood bozos what
“commercial cinema” could be with their superior knowledge of the art and craft
of “ci-ne-ma.” Funnily, whenever they have been provided this chance, their
masterpieces have had to be peeled off the ceiling.
The
simple truth is that popular audience taste and the task of hard-core delivery
of value are wildly unmade for each other. The reaction of the arrogant,
stunned mavericks? “The film was much ahead
of its time,” or the other howler, “What
else can one expect from an audience continuously fed on Bollywood trash?”
Any wonder that the Bollywood guys die laughing?
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Says an insider who’s been in the thick of this movement when it
exploded in the mid-seventies: “Ideally, there should have been no conflicts
between this art and commercial divide. They can happily co-exist. There is an
audience for both. Problem starts when people believe they can change the
world, but along the way, switch lanes. With a few exceptions, it’s amazing how
fake and self-seeking most of these guys are. In the name of good cinema, they
had no problem selling their souls to get into the Panorama section of the Indian Film Festival and move on to the international
circuit. That was their Big Bang — Cannes, Venice, Berlin, London or any of the
smaller versions. To them it signaled arrival and achievement. The producers
and the local audience could go to hell, along with the technicians and
artistes, all of whom gave their life-blood for the film. Is it any wonder that
Naseer Shah (after years of being conned), finally gives it to these fakes
whenever and wherever the occasion demands?”
In the final analysis it is important to remember that beyond talent
what small cinema demands is a high level of integrity and commitment. Its
rewards have to do with accomplishment, prestige and honor rather than glitz, glamour
and big bucks. One can’t have both. The Bollywood boys are clear in their funda
of drooling over Mammon. Professing undying allegiance to the Muse while
secretly lusting for filthy lucre is not very arty, is it?
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