Some things in life exist to play a certain specific role that you just can’t avoid. They will be there. You shrug your shoulders, jerk your head, jump up and down on your new mattress when your mother is not looking, avoid, run away; they will continue to breathe your air. Take Indian television for example. It’s an accepted fact that most of us can’t really avoid watching it. Whether we demean it in front of a group of friends thereby proving our intellectual fervor for things and showing our frustration about the mediocrity that so conspicuously surrounds us, or casually make an eye gesture stating that we are not from this world, and wherever we are from, we can’t relate to this bullshit, most of us come back and watch at least a part of it. Whether it’s spy cams or glycerin, film trailers or live lottery shows, on-air weddings or shocking revelations of girls and boys put in an apparently far away island, television today exposes our penchant for all that is immoral and grey so shamelessly that one has to take a moment and bow in agreement. Who knew articulate feature writers in lifestyle newspapers would analyse, if not justify voyeurism and make people nod in appraisal in moving buses and trains. Who knew that Facebook status messages would talk about plastic wedding shows in the pretext of mocking at them. Yes we might mock, but we do watch. And after we watch, who the hell cares what we do with them, mock or revere.
But it’s not really our fault. We watch whatever we are given. We watch whatever is deemed cool at that point of time. We watch, whatever we do not get to watch but always thought in out stolen lonely moments with a smirk on the corner of our lips that it would have been nice to watch. So we see a girl watching her boyfriend touching another girl on the roof of the same building she is sitting in, and we see her cry or get angry or feel the pain. And then we see her being asked whether she wants to go up and talk to him right now, and if she says no, we see her being given a justification for why exactly she should do that. And some of us get disgusted, while some others, suspicious. Some of us get scared, while some others, just have fun. And by the end of it all, we say hello to the new age of television.
From Nukkad and Chunauti to Emotional Atyachaar, television has come a long way in this country. I remember watching a delightful film by Tapan Sinha called Golpo Holeo Shotti, it was probably a film made in the 60’s or 70’s, am not sure, and there was this art guy in an advertising firm, sketched a woman who was wrapped only by a thin swirling measuring tape. When the orthodox middle aged protagonist expressed his reservations about such an “inane” display, the artist nonchalantly stated that it’s not supposed to pass through a moral judgment, it is supposed to sell. And then he used a term called “shockumentary”- the new age documentary that will only grow in its stature. And now, it’s all about that. Being a prude was never cool. But so wasn’t being shamelessly mediocre. But now, as far as television is concerned, mediocrity works, and hence, it is probably the coolest thing to happen in the visual art form on the small screen. From News channels to reality shows, it’s shockumentary all the way. And we love it.
But then, why would one televisionise films? Why would one try and cash in the content that is being successful on the small screen and try and make the versions in cinema? Probably because of the same reason. But then, something tells me not to appreciate it. I don’t know. Call me a hypocrite. May be because of the hugeness of the screen, may be its all a compact storyline that actually gives a conclusion to the story, or may be, at a very personal level, cinema still has managed to earn a certain sort of respect that television has lost long ago. But suddenly, I become very uncool and touchy and aware when it comes to cinema. So when I watch a couple in love being murdered and cut into pieces on camera, I don’t call it cinema. I call it sadistic orgasm. I call it pornography. I also call it very smart business because when we read all those stories on newspapers, we keep visulaising them and wonder how they would be like, and this is the answer to those questions. I call it demented display of blood and gore in the name of art.
I love the way Scorsese shows violence as a cause of someone’s loss, or a result of circumstances. I can appreciate Tarentino’s (however controversial they may be) bordering abnormal ideas and portraying them on the big screen with mind bogglingly beautiful music. I remember a lot of arguments surfaced after the release of Inglorious Basterds. And while some could not see the point of such ruthless cathartic display, I loved the film. Because somehow, I could see a story written with a lot of care to put it on the screen. Somehow I could see a man sniffing his wife’s handkerchief once before he went on to try and save a group of jews from a vicious Nazi officer. Somehow, I could feel the pain in the rhythm of the music in the midst of the blood bath. I could see art, in some form, and I appreciate it. But I do not understand something like Love, Sex or Dhoka. It might be grammatically perfect, but I do not see art in it. But then, who am I to judge. As Sinha said, it’s shockumentary. And so might be others, but what scares me is, it’s JUST that. Nothing else. It was made in order to shock people. I can see Mr. Banerjee going up to his producer and saying, “this time let’s make something that would just shock people, shock them so much that they might not want to watch it again… but then who the hell cares… they will remember the film as something else”. So what is next? May be the last phone conversation before a plane crashes, or may be a realistic short film on the tandoor case. And while I can accept it on television, may be I am too rigid to accept this in cinema. For you see, I actually love the latter.
I love the way Scorsese shows violence as a cause of someone’s loss, or a result of circumstances. I can appreciate Tarentino’s (however controversial they may be) bordering abnormal ideas and portraying them on the big screen with mind bogglingly beautiful music. I remember a lot of arguments surfaced after the release of Inglorious Basterds. And while some could not see the point of such ruthless cathartic display, I loved the film. Because somehow, I could see a story written with a lot of care to put it on the screen. Somehow I could see a man sniffing his wife’s handkerchief once before he went on to try and save a group of jews from a vicious Nazi officer. Somehow, I could feel the pain in the rhythm of the music in the midst of the blood bath. I could see art, in some form, and I appreciate it. But I do not understand something like Love, Sex or Dhoka. It might be grammatically perfect, but I do not see art in it. But then, who am I to judge. As Sinha said, it’s shockumentary. And so might be others, but what scares me is, it’s JUST that. Nothing else. It was made in order to shock people. I can see Mr. Banerjee going up to his producer and saying, “this time let’s make something that would just shock people, shock them so much that they might not want to watch it again… but then who the hell cares… they will remember the film as something else”. So what is next? May be the last phone conversation before a plane crashes, or may be a realistic short film on the tandoor case. And while I can accept it on television, may be I am too rigid to accept this in cinema. For you see, I actually love the latter.
I don't know what ensues in the name of visual media. But I think it’s time I learnt to appreciate instantaneous shock therapy.
But then again, I went and watched Alice in Wonderland. And it wasn’t a smirk at the corner of my lips that followed, it was a smile that stretched the lips till it pained.
And thank god for such a smile.
