Monday, January 10, 2011
Notes from a filmmaker's diary
Memories of a film move you, so much that you vibrate with her emotion, within her world. You want to be one with that world. It resonates within you and outside you, thus evoking a sense of longing for that world. How many times have I heard the music of Truffaut’s “Stolen Kisses” and have just pined to see it?
A film also needs some time to grow on you. Depending on the subject and treatment of the filmmaker it may take a finite time to draw you into it. Very, very few films have achieved this from the first scene and first line. One good example is “Pulp Fiction”. There is something (I still don’t know what) in the mood of the film that makes you love her from the first shot. This technique of instant intoxication is present in many Hollywood films, which casts its spell from the opening frame. Very often it is used - although not always inspired by the narrative - to grab the audience’s attention from the first scene. This is also one of the popular techniques of screenwriting practiced in Hollywood.
Film is the science of repetition, of doing that exercise over and over again until you feel satiated and de-satiated. I wrote, re-wrote, read, wrote and re-wrote that script but still that elusive something is missing.
Memory and grief have a strange connection. You are thrown back to past memories in your most weak and fragile times. Somehow that memory saves you from further dilapidation.
Characterize the space and let the actors enter into that space. Many good filmmakers like Bresson will use space to convey an emotion which no actor or music can. It contributes very significantly to the “world of the film”, through some psychological genesis.
A good film has a tendency of finding its audience.
Are true creators really lonely people or they just revel in their own glory? A true artist has no right to shun himself from the rest of the society. He owes them too much to remain divorced.
A film also needs some time to grow on you. Depending on the subject and treatment of the filmmaker it may take a finite time to draw you into it. Very, very few films have achieved this from the first scene and first line. One good example is “Pulp Fiction”. There is something (I still don’t know what) in the mood of the film that makes you love her from the first shot. This technique of instant intoxication is present in many Hollywood films, which casts its spell from the opening frame. Very often it is used - although not always inspired by the narrative - to grab the audience’s attention from the first scene. This is also one of the popular techniques of screenwriting practiced in Hollywood.
Film is the science of repetition, of doing that exercise over and over again until you feel satiated and de-satiated. I wrote, re-wrote, read, wrote and re-wrote that script but still that elusive something is missing.
Memory and grief have a strange connection. You are thrown back to past memories in your most weak and fragile times. Somehow that memory saves you from further dilapidation.
Characterize the space and let the actors enter into that space. Many good filmmakers like Bresson will use space to convey an emotion which no actor or music can. It contributes very significantly to the “world of the film”, through some psychological genesis.
A good film has a tendency of finding its audience.
Are true creators really lonely people or they just revel in their own glory? A true artist has no right to shun himself from the rest of the society. He owes them too much to remain divorced.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Death of a salesman
Tragedy is a voilent force. It is profound. It doesn't put you through emotionally orgasmic fits like thriller or comedy does. It is far more subliminal and potent. Dramatic tragedy is almost celebratory. You cannot subdue your temptation to erupt in applaud and awe.
Truly tragic stories are highly psycho-analylitical, where people end up being what they never wanted to be, but couldn't help it. Tragedy may not have the verbal or situational acrobatics as other forms of theatre. They grow slowly, draw you in and if played out well you never get bored out of them. Even the best comedies suffer from the slack even if faintest. But tragedies have an upward narrative trajectory.
Death of a salesman, by Arthur Miller, is a classic tragedy. Truly modern in fervor yet so classical and universal. The sense of brutal conflict and sheer hopelessness of life can bring an entire family to a breaking point. There is no way out, not even death, for a truly tragic human. The hopes parents pin on their children, the unfounded hatred which children develop for their parents and the utter stalemate out of it. People don't change. They are too powerless to change anything, anything around them. People should never venture out changing the world. You are too humble for that. Human heart is too noble to be tricked into some emotional jitterbug. It may be only faintly influenced but nothing more.
To be Contd.....
Truly tragic stories are highly psycho-analylitical, where people end up being what they never wanted to be, but couldn't help it. Tragedy may not have the verbal or situational acrobatics as other forms of theatre. They grow slowly, draw you in and if played out well you never get bored out of them. Even the best comedies suffer from the slack even if faintest. But tragedies have an upward narrative trajectory.
Death of a salesman, by Arthur Miller, is a classic tragedy. Truly modern in fervor yet so classical and universal. The sense of brutal conflict and sheer hopelessness of life can bring an entire family to a breaking point. There is no way out, not even death, for a truly tragic human. The hopes parents pin on their children, the unfounded hatred which children develop for their parents and the utter stalemate out of it. People don't change. They are too powerless to change anything, anything around them. People should never venture out changing the world. You are too humble for that. Human heart is too noble to be tricked into some emotional jitterbug. It may be only faintly influenced but nothing more.
To be Contd.....
Films: more than just stories
Shocking revelation! I felt today that the art of good reading good may not be relevant even essential to understand visual aesthetics. You may be a truly juvenile reader and yet be a visual genius. On the hindsight, it seems obvious. It's so stupid of me to have such an stilted notion about the film art. I might be talking my head out, but it is genuinely unintelligent for me think that way all along.
I associated all good art to stem from developing an intellect. I mean how could one serve the higher purpose of creativity if one doesn't realize his own power, his intellectual prowess to mock at the ordinariness of people around him.
But this new-found knowledge is vastly devastating. It puts into perspective a lot of unnecessary questions I had about the film art and film language. My beliefs are changing. Reading and writing have their own virtues but filmmaking may not entirely lean on these capabilities or may be even fully dissociated from that. An honest introspection illuminates the cold fact that you may get nowhere in film art if you put all your money on literature. Film is so abundantly influenced by other art forms like visuals, sound, music that one could invest oneself fully in these, forget about literature and yet emerge a potent film force. It's just the way it is.
What is the most prudent question one must answer oneself before throwing oneself into films? Whether you want to be a passive lover or an active one. There is plenty of room for passive lovers even experts. It's quite another thing to be an active one. And if you want to excel in the process by satisfying your artistic thrust, then one must choose the art form closest to ones abilities and work their way into the films riding on that.
Films are a moving force of the society. A film moment, once passed, cannot be experienced the same way ever. So what you are living is one of its own kind of moment. And one historian rightly puts, film is not an art form of 20th century, it is the art form of the century. I should not be accused of stealing somebody else's thunder here because the thought is so universally felt across. It would be like blaming you to breath the same air as Frank Sinatra.
I personally do not believe one could do everything by themselves in a certain amount of time in which a film must complete itself. You will always be evolving continuously. A film must complete in a certain time and always belong there.
I associated all good art to stem from developing an intellect. I mean how could one serve the higher purpose of creativity if one doesn't realize his own power, his intellectual prowess to mock at the ordinariness of people around him.
But this new-found knowledge is vastly devastating. It puts into perspective a lot of unnecessary questions I had about the film art and film language. My beliefs are changing. Reading and writing have their own virtues but filmmaking may not entirely lean on these capabilities or may be even fully dissociated from that. An honest introspection illuminates the cold fact that you may get nowhere in film art if you put all your money on literature. Film is so abundantly influenced by other art forms like visuals, sound, music that one could invest oneself fully in these, forget about literature and yet emerge a potent film force. It's just the way it is.
What is the most prudent question one must answer oneself before throwing oneself into films? Whether you want to be a passive lover or an active one. There is plenty of room for passive lovers even experts. It's quite another thing to be an active one. And if you want to excel in the process by satisfying your artistic thrust, then one must choose the art form closest to ones abilities and work their way into the films riding on that.
Films are a moving force of the society. A film moment, once passed, cannot be experienced the same way ever. So what you are living is one of its own kind of moment. And one historian rightly puts, film is not an art form of 20th century, it is the art form of the century. I should not be accused of stealing somebody else's thunder here because the thought is so universally felt across. It would be like blaming you to breath the same air as Frank Sinatra.
I personally do not believe one could do everything by themselves in a certain amount of time in which a film must complete itself. You will always be evolving continuously. A film must complete in a certain time and always belong there.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Wandering the streets of Boston
A certain divinely beautiful moment presented itself when I looked out the window and found that it had ended raining at last after a relentless two days. The streets looked fresh and inviting. It was as if the nature had wiped everything clean in the wake of God’s unplanned visit that fine evening. Not particularly inspired by the chill outside, I ventured out with no clear agenda but to wander around and find a cozy spot in some solitary corner to pen a few lines or some interesting bit of light falling at an interesting angle on some interesting object to dabble-snap with my camera.
The sky looked blue cutting a sharp contrast to the scores and scores and scores of brick colored facades lining the streets on both sides. The air smelled fresh youth and with every step I was inching close to the Charles River which winds pretty close the hotel I am staying in. You couldn’t wait to see the sight of a River churning animatedly after 2 days of constant rain and although I knew it wouldn’t make much difference to the size of a River which is about to embrace the Atlantic a few miles down the line, the thought still excited me.
The Bridge on the Charles River. Immensity faces you. Immensity of space, of sky, of deep pink sunset, of the sun about the take a dip into the ocean. Air is too heavy with the smell of the River who is equally bubbly as me. I take out my camera, click a few snaps. Looks good. The pavements are washed clean and not a speck of dust rests anywhere. People are already out the door with their bikes, kids, pets or just by themselves. I decide to go off to the promenade which lines the river for a few miles ahead into the Boston city. You could see the entire sky lining from out here. This is where the artificial meets the natural. The violent river thumps into the concrete lining with an ageless rhythm, shimmers of setting sun beam into the glossy and tall sky lining.
Look Ahoy! People are already out into the River in their kayaks. Further ahead, I see small boats sailing their way back into the harbor-front where they will dust off their evening. With a few cans of beer down them in the nearby local bar they will have forgotten the toil of the day already. I wish I could finish my days like that. On a side note, these boats could be a notoriously difficult ride on harsh sunny days and could seriously impair your vision at an early age if you don’t use enough protective gear.
The marigold-lined promenade is now bare except a few passer-by joggers wired with their iPhones. I pass by Boston yacht club where a few elderly couple are relaxing with a book spread on their lap and a fat wine glass sitting beside them. Some small yachts are rocking and dancing to the tune of thumping waves. A distant roar of motorbike engine cuts through the silence. They are all probably heading towards the Boston commons area where they all have a bash at each other every now and then and so they might cheer at the prospect of being first amongst equals with other serious bikers rounding the park. It’s so uncanny that the roar of biker’s engine so reflects the rider’s age. I have seen very very few matured riders roaring their engines to show off their masculinity. To some serious bikers it might almost sound infantile to rev-up unnecessarily.
On a rather personal note, such casual walks by the rivers could sometime get really lonely and you could walk miles after miles with not a thought crossing your mind. I have personally never forced my self into a thought and it’s a special feeling when your mind gets a divine push or cosmic kick out of no where. I guess it was one of those moments.
The sky looked blue cutting a sharp contrast to the scores and scores and scores of brick colored facades lining the streets on both sides. The air smelled fresh youth and with every step I was inching close to the Charles River which winds pretty close the hotel I am staying in. You couldn’t wait to see the sight of a River churning animatedly after 2 days of constant rain and although I knew it wouldn’t make much difference to the size of a River which is about to embrace the Atlantic a few miles down the line, the thought still excited me.
The Bridge on the Charles River. Immensity faces you. Immensity of space, of sky, of deep pink sunset, of the sun about the take a dip into the ocean. Air is too heavy with the smell of the River who is equally bubbly as me. I take out my camera, click a few snaps. Looks good. The pavements are washed clean and not a speck of dust rests anywhere. People are already out the door with their bikes, kids, pets or just by themselves. I decide to go off to the promenade which lines the river for a few miles ahead into the Boston city. You could see the entire sky lining from out here. This is where the artificial meets the natural. The violent river thumps into the concrete lining with an ageless rhythm, shimmers of setting sun beam into the glossy and tall sky lining.
Look Ahoy! People are already out into the River in their kayaks. Further ahead, I see small boats sailing their way back into the harbor-front where they will dust off their evening. With a few cans of beer down them in the nearby local bar they will have forgotten the toil of the day already. I wish I could finish my days like that. On a side note, these boats could be a notoriously difficult ride on harsh sunny days and could seriously impair your vision at an early age if you don’t use enough protective gear.
The marigold-lined promenade is now bare except a few passer-by joggers wired with their iPhones. I pass by Boston yacht club where a few elderly couple are relaxing with a book spread on their lap and a fat wine glass sitting beside them. Some small yachts are rocking and dancing to the tune of thumping waves. A distant roar of motorbike engine cuts through the silence. They are all probably heading towards the Boston commons area where they all have a bash at each other every now and then and so they might cheer at the prospect of being first amongst equals with other serious bikers rounding the park. It’s so uncanny that the roar of biker’s engine so reflects the rider’s age. I have seen very very few matured riders roaring their engines to show off their masculinity. To some serious bikers it might almost sound infantile to rev-up unnecessarily.
On a rather personal note, such casual walks by the rivers could sometime get really lonely and you could walk miles after miles with not a thought crossing your mind. I have personally never forced my self into a thought and it’s a special feeling when your mind gets a divine push or cosmic kick out of no where. I guess it was one of those moments.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Guilt of the pleasure of bitchy talk
Shut ‘em kids up
Following thoughts might hurt the sensibilities of all the parents who love their kids and whose love emanates from some unknown new found euphoria which brainwashes them to ignore the nuisance kids cause to general public in public places. I might even sound childish or immature in my observations but that’s OK because that is precisely what I call myself too.
We have heard a lot about people marginalizing themselves into confinements of self incarcerations. They are not waiting for redemptions to happen in their lives. They are just climbing stairs after stairs without checking out that there might be an elevator somewhere, happily living away their closeted existences, so to say. First marriage, then kids, then kids of kids, changing diapers, potato chips, wailing kids, all the symbols marking their ordinary, petty lives. I have not the right to be judgmental about others, but its hard to remain un-opinionated in these matters. Opinions make a man after all.
Every time you come by such people caught in the crossfire of “here or there” you almost feel that its how humans usually behave when they come in contact with a richer society, whatever that means to them. You are born in an ordinary birth, live in an ordinary society, get an ordinary education, an ordinary higher education, an ordinary further higher education, finally an ordinary job and then.
And then come the years and years and years of self denial that this is life. This is what the fuss is about. What else is there to it anyway?
Modern third world generations have an interesting twist in the story. They get their ordinary jobs abroad, which can fetch some royal living. This is a far more dangerous situation as it lends fillip to the idea of striving for that ordinary life. On one hand you have that basically unexciting life tied around 5 days a week and the dreadful 9 to 5. And believe me it is very hard to free oneself from the tyranny of 9 to 5; impossibly hard for people with families, kids and responsibilities. You can’t suddenly zone yourself out of it. Can you? In fact many of us don’t really want to. Especially the ones who get married and start asking right after “Well I got that one out of my system. What now?” and end up with kids as only possible answers. This is such a narcotic life that you are not only fully content with your jaded lives but rather start boasting about it. What if it’s peppered with wailing kids, husbands at times bashing their wives, in-laws cursing you for not bearing a boy and your parents who love to the see your back marrying you off as soon as they legally can.
And a few moments later another bitchy thought creeps in…
This idea has somehow stuck in me. I can’t seem to move on, I simply can’t. And am I the only one to hate wailing kids so much? I guess not. Kids on a flight, for instance. I bet there are quite a few of us who don’t like ‘em there. They are too unceremonious.
Second thing I hate most is the Bollywood and its corny movies. Out comes that shit time after time after time and it leaves you curbed down. It’s as if you are going under, and this constant mediocrity pervades you everywhere. The streets you walk, the elevators, bus stations, shopping malls, trains, and office. Oh yeah, office space breeds mediocrity, even thrives on it. To have such a low life treatment and lack of space to have my leaves approved by a supervisor. And don’t forget the relentless 9 to 5. The clueless, dull and boring weekends those begin too late on Saturday afternoons and end too early on Sunday mornings. Bi-yearly getaways to some sunny location where you don’t know how best to enjoy except getting bored on beaches, with a bottle of beer which you don’t enjoy after a few sips and follow that with some shitty looking Indian tasting Thai entrée with mounds of capsicum dominating the age old chicken-capsicum war in Chinese cuisine of cheap Indian restaurants.
Following thoughts might hurt the sensibilities of all the parents who love their kids and whose love emanates from some unknown new found euphoria which brainwashes them to ignore the nuisance kids cause to general public in public places. I might even sound childish or immature in my observations but that’s OK because that is precisely what I call myself too.
We have heard a lot about people marginalizing themselves into confinements of self incarcerations. They are not waiting for redemptions to happen in their lives. They are just climbing stairs after stairs without checking out that there might be an elevator somewhere, happily living away their closeted existences, so to say. First marriage, then kids, then kids of kids, changing diapers, potato chips, wailing kids, all the symbols marking their ordinary, petty lives. I have not the right to be judgmental about others, but its hard to remain un-opinionated in these matters. Opinions make a man after all.
Every time you come by such people caught in the crossfire of “here or there” you almost feel that its how humans usually behave when they come in contact with a richer society, whatever that means to them. You are born in an ordinary birth, live in an ordinary society, get an ordinary education, an ordinary higher education, an ordinary further higher education, finally an ordinary job and then.
And then come the years and years and years of self denial that this is life. This is what the fuss is about. What else is there to it anyway?
Modern third world generations have an interesting twist in the story. They get their ordinary jobs abroad, which can fetch some royal living. This is a far more dangerous situation as it lends fillip to the idea of striving for that ordinary life. On one hand you have that basically unexciting life tied around 5 days a week and the dreadful 9 to 5. And believe me it is very hard to free oneself from the tyranny of 9 to 5; impossibly hard for people with families, kids and responsibilities. You can’t suddenly zone yourself out of it. Can you? In fact many of us don’t really want to. Especially the ones who get married and start asking right after “Well I got that one out of my system. What now?” and end up with kids as only possible answers. This is such a narcotic life that you are not only fully content with your jaded lives but rather start boasting about it. What if it’s peppered with wailing kids, husbands at times bashing their wives, in-laws cursing you for not bearing a boy and your parents who love to the see your back marrying you off as soon as they legally can.
And a few moments later another bitchy thought creeps in…
This idea has somehow stuck in me. I can’t seem to move on, I simply can’t. And am I the only one to hate wailing kids so much? I guess not. Kids on a flight, for instance. I bet there are quite a few of us who don’t like ‘em there. They are too unceremonious.
Second thing I hate most is the Bollywood and its corny movies. Out comes that shit time after time after time and it leaves you curbed down. It’s as if you are going under, and this constant mediocrity pervades you everywhere. The streets you walk, the elevators, bus stations, shopping malls, trains, and office. Oh yeah, office space breeds mediocrity, even thrives on it. To have such a low life treatment and lack of space to have my leaves approved by a supervisor. And don’t forget the relentless 9 to 5. The clueless, dull and boring weekends those begin too late on Saturday afternoons and end too early on Sunday mornings. Bi-yearly getaways to some sunny location where you don’t know how best to enjoy except getting bored on beaches, with a bottle of beer which you don’t enjoy after a few sips and follow that with some shitty looking Indian tasting Thai entrée with mounds of capsicum dominating the age old chicken-capsicum war in Chinese cuisine of cheap Indian restaurants.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Musings
You have to be an Island at first to be a part of the big land later. If you start considering yourself as essentially being a part of the mainland then you won’t be able to etch out an identity for yourself. This is an identity crisis of the worst kind as apparently it doesn’t seem to be a crisis at all. What can really be wrong in being a part of the whole? On the outside, nothing; but on the inside, everything.
A direct outcome of this realization is that you have to learn to believe in the ephemeral existence of things around you before trying to monumentalize them. Let me elaborate on this further, suppose you have a personal experience which can make a pretty interesting story, you have to first train yourself to fully flesh it out as it is. At this stage, do not bother about how appealing it might sound to others. It may or it may not. In order to fully realize that personal experience into a story, you have to spit out whatever you have around that; free-associate. Just get is out of your system, you will feel unburdened. You are now convinced that you have it in you to put something out of your sheer experience into a sensible narrative that appeals to at least one person in your knowledge. That is you.
Several story ideas don’t even see the light of the day, despite their high appeal value. They pass out through that initial self-censorship phase. Those that make it to the next level have a slight chance to making it even bigger. Therefore it is essential to spit it out, and see where it takes you. Remember, the best of the stories were merely “an idea” before they became timeless classics.
In the process of writing these ideas, sometimes you need a certain degree of detachment. You don’t want to color the impressions of your ideas by something that has already been present in a much matured form to you. One of the challenges of modern times is that you are living in an age of overwhelming visual experiences where peoples’ (including yours) aesthetic and cinematic senses have heightened manifold over the past few years. Any nascent idea dies out a quick death due to a lack of visual thinness. Good thing here is that your gut feeling still prevails. If your instinct says it can then it will. But sensitizing one’s instinct is like rolling the dice and watch the luck play out. Instincts are moody whores. Any moment could be as wrong as it is right.
By severing all the connections and curbing all the cravings to go back to civilization, you embark on that inner journey which is full of unseen passages and unturned twists. Sometimes to reach that deep inside, you need to dissociate from others and just be unto yourself. Like a remote, lonesome island. Easier said than done.
A direct outcome of this realization is that you have to learn to believe in the ephemeral existence of things around you before trying to monumentalize them. Let me elaborate on this further, suppose you have a personal experience which can make a pretty interesting story, you have to first train yourself to fully flesh it out as it is. At this stage, do not bother about how appealing it might sound to others. It may or it may not. In order to fully realize that personal experience into a story, you have to spit out whatever you have around that; free-associate. Just get is out of your system, you will feel unburdened. You are now convinced that you have it in you to put something out of your sheer experience into a sensible narrative that appeals to at least one person in your knowledge. That is you.
Several story ideas don’t even see the light of the day, despite their high appeal value. They pass out through that initial self-censorship phase. Those that make it to the next level have a slight chance to making it even bigger. Therefore it is essential to spit it out, and see where it takes you. Remember, the best of the stories were merely “an idea” before they became timeless classics.
In the process of writing these ideas, sometimes you need a certain degree of detachment. You don’t want to color the impressions of your ideas by something that has already been present in a much matured form to you. One of the challenges of modern times is that you are living in an age of overwhelming visual experiences where peoples’ (including yours) aesthetic and cinematic senses have heightened manifold over the past few years. Any nascent idea dies out a quick death due to a lack of visual thinness. Good thing here is that your gut feeling still prevails. If your instinct says it can then it will. But sensitizing one’s instinct is like rolling the dice and watch the luck play out. Instincts are moody whores. Any moment could be as wrong as it is right.
By severing all the connections and curbing all the cravings to go back to civilization, you embark on that inner journey which is full of unseen passages and unturned twists. Sometimes to reach that deep inside, you need to dissociate from others and just be unto yourself. Like a remote, lonesome island. Easier said than done.
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