In Defence Of Masala Movies!

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.

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?

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?