To Abhay with love

Who the hell is this guy?

I call him “gust of wind”. Because that’s what I thought he was when I first encountered Abhay Deol, at my cousin’s house in London. He came into the house, dumped his rucksack at the bottom of the stairwell, ran up the stairs and then ran back down holding two jackets up in front of me. “Which one?” he asked. I looked up to see two, almost identical, jackets dangling in the distance between us. “The one with the elbow pads,” I said. He chucked the other jacket onto his rucksack and put on the one I suggested. I looked at my watch; it was time for me to head back to the gallery and get ready for the opening of my exhibition. I picked up my bag and headed toward the door. “Hang on we’ll go together”, he said picking up his wallet and rushing in front, to open the door. On our way to the bus stop, just before he got on his bus, he cut me a deal: “I’ll come for your exhibition if you’ll come for a party with me after.” I smiled, he had himself a deal. But I couldn’t help but ask myself “Who the hell is this guy and what the hell is he doing here?” That was it. I put it out there for the universe to bring me the answers.

I arrived at the gallery, did the final touch ups and waited, then decided to make the best of the free bar and started to get light headed….the people came, I smiled, answered their questions, took some critique, drank some more, pretended to look at the stuff like I’d never seen it before and just when I thought I had my fill of it… in he walked, in the jacket of my choice, disarming everyone with his smile as he made his way past the people to the video exhibit. I waited. I watched…. he got up. I went up to him…. “I recognized only one actor. Because of the mole.”  No hi, no hello…no siree, he cut right through that opening conversation. “Drink?” was all I could get myself to say. I grabbed the free beers… he grabbed my hand and then we grabbed a taxi to his ‘Socha Na Tha’ party. That was Abhay Deol’s debut into my life and ‘Socha na Tha’ was his debut in the Indian film world.

The next evening we decided, on a random whim, to go see a movie. By the time we got to the theatre, the movie had already begun and just as I was buying tickets thinking we were only 5 minutes late, I noticed Abhay walking off. “I can’t watch it. We already missed the beginning.” And he left. That was Abhay Deol. No questions asked, no answers given.

I think that’s the last I saw of him until he randomly called me three years later in Delhi, “Do you know who this is?” he asked. How would I? What kind of a question was that? That’s when I finally met Abhay in his world, on the sets of Anurag Kashyap’s ‘Dev D’. I hugged him tight and looked into his face. It was him alright…. but not. He was more aware, more cautious, more actor, less person…. he was on his way to become the “critically acclaimed” star of Bollywood. The Abhay Deol that they were waiting to fall in love with, with his next two releases of ‘Dev D’ and ‘Oye Lucky! Lucky Oye!’.

With ‘Honeymoon Travels’, ‘Manorama Six Feet Under’, ‘Dev D’ and ‘Oye Lucky’ under his belt, I thought it was the last I’d see of him and his newly acclaimed stardom. But then came Bombay, and I found myself standing in his open doorway, seeing him perched atop his dining table with a purple chandelier in his hand, “Do you think this is too much?” It would normally be too much, but it was perfect in his pop-kitsche house. And the familiarity whooshed back; he still refused to open a conversation. It was as if I had been standing there since the first time I met him.  That was Abhay Deol, not the star, not the gust of wind, just a guy dripping in sweat, waiting for his air-conditioning to be fixed and doing up his new bachelor pad.

“I’m moving to New York,” he told me “I’m bored.” And that was that, he signed on four more films, got himself an apartment and moved to Manhattan. I called him yesterday to ask him when he was coming back and he said, “For what?” “Life…film…family…. friends?” I say. “But I still have all that,” he stated. It ended there. No questions asked, no lies told.

So the universe did answer my question. Who the hell is he? He is, Abhay Deol, the gust of wind with the rucksack, who became the star, remained a friend and is sitting in Manhattan waiting for someone or something to give him reason to leave and come back.

Here's looking at you kid....

People keep asking me "What's your favourite film?'. And I'm at a loss. So many films...so many great films...how do you decide? But I think I've narrowed it down... looking at all the films I own, I would have to say it was a tough decision between 'Casablanca' and 'Goodfellas'. But I think I would have to give it to 'Casablanca'. It's near flawless. The more times I've seen that film, the more times I'm convinced that there is absolutely nothing about that film that does not work.

Some may say that 'Casablanca' got lucky. I suppose luck was on its side when they chose to release it only three weeks after Eisenhower marched into Africa. But looking back, it was an accomplishment in the true sense of the word. Although 'Casablanca' is most remembered for its romantic idealism, the story did not have a happy ending. 'Havana' tried to recapture 'Casablanca''s romantic idealism and all star cast and the result was a complete failure...because there was more to 'Casablanca' than mere romance. There was mystery, political propaganda, heroism, romance...all mixed into one. The characters are the most well loved characters of our time, but in truth, there was nothing lovable about the characters themselves. They were hypocrits, cynics, liars, underground leaders, and thieves. But somehow the movie let them rise above all that and redeemed them of their various character flaws. The end...I think almost all would agree that it is one of the best movie endings. The movie would not have had the same resonance if Bogey had left with Ilsa. That little selfless act at the end managed to turn Rick into a hero, while throughout the film, he was just a drunken hypocrite, who had given up on life and ran a bar.

But the fact is, if  'Casablanca' had been made today, it would never have been popular. We've all seen too much and know too much. Our cynicism would never let us appreciate a movie of such simple values. But it's nice to believe that life was once a lot less complicated and simpler, irrespective of whether that might be true or not. I could go on and on...but I'm too sleepy. I'll say one thing though...those dialogues that make it the most quoted film (I think besides 'Pulp Fiction') ...to think that it was all an improvised script. Now you tell me, could anyone pull a stunt like that and get away with it today? I quite seriously doubt it.

Postmodernism. Is it dead?

The thing about postmodernism is that there is no one-way to define it. That is apparently the most postmodern thing about it. Where do critics fit into this postmodern picture? After I go watch a film I like to read reviews, and although it interests me to see what people have to say about it I don't think it defines my own opinion of it but that's only because I probably have the same knowledge as them and can put that same knowledge into a different perspective.... but what about people without that knowledge? Must they depend on a singular person's perspective? Critics are forever trying to pass off their own opinions on things as the "right" one. Is there a right opinion? If there is, then clearly postmodernism is dead. Postmodernism only came into being because of the knowledge of the fact that there was far too much knowledge in the world to narrow information down but here are people who are making a whole career out of narrowing it down for us.

It can't be helped.... if enough information leads you to one direction then, unless you have access to all the other information, you tend to follow in on that one. Isn’t that a deconstruction of postmodernism? All art, all film... is in theory post modernistic and yet we have art awards and film awards. Does an Oscar winning film automatically mean a film's good? There has never been a theory or set of rules that defines what makes a good film, good and good art, good. It’s all personal. You take from films and art what you will. Titanic sailed through all the Oscars that year...and one year later those same critics that applauded it, suddenly decided it was no more than a soppy, romantic film. Postmodernism was still standing to an extent...but what is its place in the 21st century? I can't help but think we're slowly progressing into a post-post modernistic age, where all the distinctions we took away are being brought back into force. We’re redrawing all the lines we once rubbed out. How do I define a film in documentary, narrative or experimental? Are there no other genres? Do all the films I ever made not even count? If film and art is postmodern, is its interpretation becoming post-post modern? Will the two coexist? If not which one will survive?