Movie Mania
I would be quick to deny I am a movie buff. I don’t consider it a virtue and believe I am in deficit in the vices department. To each his/her own delusions.
Yet, the most appealing aspect of my first home in Doha was its proximity to a cinema complex. A place that would enjoy our overwhelming patronage till my daughter happened.
I was a late starter as far as theatre going is concerned. The first film I recall watching is ‘Billa’. On a Sunday evening on Doordarshan, along with my cousins. Probably why I am still a great fan of Rajnikanth. Come ‘Baba’ or high water, the Rajni I adore is the man who danced down a wide staircase singing, ‘My name is
Billa’.
Going to the theatre for my single-income large family was a very rare treat. We feasted on DD’s repetitive menu of scratchy films, many of which (‘Kaali’, ‘Kalyana Raman’, ‘Johny’) I remember fondly.
My parents watched three films a year – on their birthdays and their wedding anniversary. The rest of the family even less. But the few treats are well remembered.
My grandmother would take us to the now defunct Sun Theatre, which was just a short walk from home. We would buy the second cheapest tickets and sit through three sweaty, bug-bitten hours and still come out happy.
During my recent visit to Chennai, I went to a parlour in the commercial complex that replaced Sun Theatre. I couldn’t enjoy my pedicure because all I could think of was how a place that entertained people was now little better than a sweatshop, with some poor soul slaving away to remove callouses from my feet.
As my family got smaller, with sisters married and away, theatre going stepped up for me. Through high school and college, visits to the cinema marked most events – birthdays, good and indifferent results, vacations…
Two of my friends, like me, would rather be dead than accept that they were film buffs. We have since matured. One particularly hot afternoon, it seemed too tedious to sit through boring hours of accountancy and auditing. We landed at Devi Paradise and ran into a ‘house full’ sign.
My resourceful friends and I went up to the manager, pretending to be Delhiites who had never seen a Tamil film. A few correct expressions, ‘bolo nas’ and ‘kyunkis’ later, we were comfortably seated, watching Sarath Kumar putting on a hopeless macho act.
One of these friends was also prone to shedding buckets of tears at the slightest hint of tragedy. Her wet hankies were more entertaining than ketch-up oozing from plastic dagger-inflicted wounds on the hero’s shoulder.
Bugs-infected seats, paan-stained walls, broken-down air-conditioners, noisy fans, black marketers, stinky toilets and roadside Romeos. All this apart, the Indian movie theatre has a charm of its own.
The theatres here are beautiful, comfortable, and clean, with superb sound systems. But I miss the
ambience. The catcalls when Jyotika comes on screen (against all values of women’s lib), cheers for Rajni, jeers for Nambiar, the commentary from fellow viewers which is often funnier than those of on-screen comedians. A bunch of people enjoying every last paisa they spent on the ticket.
My uncle used to work in places like Namakkal, Vandavasi and Tindivanam. And I have happily warmed some hard mud floors in those ‘kottais’ (tents) too.
On a three-day vacation to Kodaikanal, my sister, cousin and I managed a visit to the theatre. On a three-week vacation in Africa, my husband and I saw a film at each place we stopped. But give me the Kodai theatre any day.
My husband is a diehard film buff and proud of it. But he is more into the ‘I’ll kill you-you kill me’ and sci-fi genre from Hollywood. Whereas I’ll choose Meg Ryan over Schwarzenegger and a Tamil film over an English one.
I took a month off for my honeymoon and while my husband headed to Doha, I went straight to the Pune Film Institute to attend a course in film appreciation.
It was there that I was first exposed to Bollywood mania, as I had till then marinated only in Tamil and Malayalam masalas. Hindi films were an occasional watch.
I was something of a peculiarity there, as I had not seen ‘Sholay’, ‘Mother India’ or ‘Deewar’, amongst hundreds of other Hindi films of mass appeal.
There is a certain snootiness about a south Indian that cannot be matched by the more open arrogance of our siblings from the north. Passive aggressive?
So, with a smirk on my face I went about watching films and educating my classmates on the superiority of southern films. Little realising the masses are always right.
It was only after I left India a few months later that I realised the value of Hindi films. However embarrassing and intellectually insulting Hindi films are, they are as crucial to the Indian identity as curry, cricket and Taj
Mahal.
To be continued
