Producing Bollywood: Inside the Contemporary Hindi Film Industry (17 page)
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Authors: Tejaswini Ganti
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I think it’s a very yuppie character actually. I think it is completely illogical, stupid, and childish, the way our hero behaves otherwise in films—where he runs away with the girl. I was asking a writer, he said, “Okay you run away,” and I asked, “
Where do you run away
?” Finally where do you run away? You can’t run away from the earth, so it’s a futile thing. You lose out on a job; you lose out on money; you lose out on credibility; your parents don’t like you; you’re fighting against the world; you meet rapists on the way; you’re traveling on trucks; it’s like, “Why lose out on all that?” Get your way done, in a little more, management-like way, like the yuppie of
Dilwale Dulhaniya
did. . . he got his way done; he got married to the girl, and it didn’t pass him any hardships. (Shah Rukh Khan, interview, 20 March 1996)
Khan’s criticism of plots featuring youthful rebellion as illogical and futile—and his characterization of DDLJ’s lack of defiance and unwillingness to challenge patriarchal authority as modern—is a response to the routinized representation of young romance in Hindi cinema; essentially, what is socially radical—romantic love across social divides—in the context of a highly stratified society, where the majority of marriages are arranged and endogamous, appears cinematically clichéd. Within the context of the history of this particular genre in Hindi cinema, DDLJ’s
intrinsic social conservatism appears radically different. Khan’s representation of his character’s complicity with, rather than resistance to, dominant social norms as comprising a more rational approach to life— akin to a yuppie manager—reframes traditional notions of filial duty as a modern practice.
Khan continued with his observations about how DDLJ reflected a modern outlook and represented the values of a younger generation, which he described as less interested in codes of propriety and honorable conduct than with favorable outcomes:
There’s more of a younger generation feel today, which is more competitive, more intelligently competitive. It’s. . . no longer for your honor or my honor. I don’t give a damn for your honor or my honor, as long as the thing is done. So the films are becoming modern, but because old ideas and values are so deeply imbibed, people like to hold on to them. So, on the face of it they would like to still believe what they’ve always believed, but somewhere, subconsciously, a film like
Dilwale
works for me mainly because it’s a modern film, and maybe that is why it is becoming more fashionable to like Hindi films. (Shah Rukh Khan, interview, 20 March 1996)
The increasing modernization of Hindi cinema was not only leading to its improved status within elite social spheres, but also among the second generation within the film industry, according to Khan. Predating Shravan Shroff’s statements, cited at the beginning of the chapter, by a decade, Khan asserted that, since Hindi films were “not as silly as they used to be, say twenty years ago,” he believed that the children of filmmakers, who “I’m sure didn’t think much of the films,” were also changing their attitudes and becoming less embarrassed about working in the industry. From Khan’s perspective, this younger generation of filmmakers was further responsible for “modernizing” Hindi cinema, described in terms of a “reduction in melodrama and larger-than-life performances,” thereby enabling Hindi films to begin to be regarded as fashionable or cool. A different perspective about such changes was offered by producer/director Govind Nihalani: “There is no anger anymore” (Nihalani, interview, May 2006), alluding to the absence of plots and narratives focusing on issues of social justice and equity, which have had a long history of representation in mainstream Hindi cinema.
By 2000, the dominance of films focusing on the love lives and dilemmas of wealthy protagonists, often located in the diaspora, was commented upon by the English-language press.
Outlook
magazine’s article, “Riverdale Sonata,” with the subheading, “
Desi
is out. As target audiences change,
Hindi cinema
gets itself a designer Archie-comics look,” pointed out, “there are no subaltern angry young men any longer; new Bollywood speaks the language of an affluent, growing middle-class” (Joseph 2000b). Similar to earlier discussions about the economic centrality of front-benchers in the 1980s, the rationale offered for the changes in cinema was attributed to audiences, specifically the emergence of diasporic audiences as a very lucrative market for Hindi filmmakers. The article argued that the “vastly attractive, but demanding overseas market has forced Hindi films to become hip and sophisticated” (Joseph 2000b).
While audiences, specifically imagined target audiences, are central to a discussion of commercial filmmaking, I contend that some of the most apparent changes in Hindi cinema in the mid-’90s—in terms of miseen-scène, themes, and protagonists—which have been too readily attributed to overseas markets, also have to do with filmmakers’ own personal tastes, privileged social backgrounds, generational identity, and desire to counter the condescension expressed toward commercial Hindi filmmaking. In fact, these filmmakers initially made films that appealed to their own sensibilities, which happened to work in certain markets, rather than doing any sort of a priori quasi-market research about diasporic or elite audiences in urban India. For example, producer/director Karan Johar, a second-generation member of the film industry, whose films have been extremely successful in overseas markets, exemplifying the gentrified narratives and aesthetic discussed earlier, was asked in an interview for the English-language weekly
Tehelka
about his “obsession with perfect colors, perfect figures, and saturated opulence.” Johar replied, “I think it comes from my need for beauty and good looks, which all through my childhood I didn’t have” (Chaudhury 2007). Describing his films as portraying a very aspirational lifestyle, Johar also explained his cinematic choices in terms of his personal history and social background: “People ask me why there’s no poverty in my films—but I’ve lived a very, very sheltered life. The only trauma I had to deal with was being fat, so my films were about the things I knew about. My first film had to be about heartbreak and first love” (Chaudhury 2007).
Johar’s first film,
Kuch Kuch Hota Hai
(KKHH; Something Happens, 1998), was a love triangle peopled with wealthy, stylish protagonists, decked out in designer brands (
Figure 5
). The film’s narrative, which unfolds in flashback, spans a decade where the protagonists are substantively introduced during their final year in college. Sharmishta Roy, who has been the art director for all of Johar’s films, discussed the criticisms leveled against the production design for the film, specifically the college portions:
Kuch Kuch Hota Hai
to a lot of people it looked like a comic strip. It was meant to be an Archie comic. It was meant to be Riverdale High. . . We achieved what we were setting out to do, because that was my briefing. I was told, “It’s Riverdale High.” It’s not any ordinary college. It’s not a college that you see in Bombay, because that’s no fun. . . you can see that on television every single day. What we’re trying to do is give the people a feeling that they’ve come to college, which is really great; it’s great fun, and this is where they meet and life was so beautiful. (Roy, interview, October 2000)
She attributed the aesthetics and styling of contemporary films as a generational phenomenon, “Our films today are being made by younger directors who are very, very Western in their outlook. Their exposure to Western society is more than to our villages in India.” Speaking about another portion of KKHH, which is set in a children’s summer camp, Roy admitted that such a concept was alien in India, but praised directors like Johar for introducing such novelty into their films.
We don’t know of summer camps over here. . . when I was talking about the upbringing of the directors today, they’re not absolutely Indian. I mean, they know of summer camps and they’ve probably been to them also, so that’s what they’re bringing into our Indian society, and our Indian society is lapping it up because it’s such great fun. We have heard over and over again we are a poor country, and no one wants to see that thrown in your face all the time. You go into a theater and you want to
escape
all that, and that’s what these guys are doing; they’re just packaging things so well that it’s entertaining; it’s touching; and it’s visually pleasant. (Roy, interview, October 2000)
struggles, Roy’s comments here present a different sense of escape, that from the perspective of socially elite viewers who are tired of being reminded that they are from a “poor” country. By presenting a picturesque, glamorous, manicured world erased of all signs of poverty, Hindi films like KKHH offer a chance to escape the signs of other peoples’ harsh lives. Such gentrified films allow wealthier audiences, including filmmakers, to briefly escape the “postcolonial condition”—the reminder of being national subjects in a poor or “developing” country like India (Gupta 1998). Unlike dominant explanations offered by journalists and scholars, which centered solely on audiences, Johar’s and Roy’s statements also remind us of the relevance of the social world and personal background of filmmakers for the form and content of Hindi filmmaking.
The notion of entertainment as a form of escape is a common feature of the discourse surrounding mainstream cinema. Whereas the more conventional understanding of Hindi cinema is as a form of fantasy, and thereby a brief respite or escape for low-income viewers from their daily
FIGURE 5
Shah Rukh Khan and Kajol in
Kuch Kuch Hota Hai
. Courtesy and copyright of Dharma Productions.
While Roy foregrounded the presumed “Western-ness” of certain filmmakers’ social and cultural backgrounds, other prominent filmmakers associated with this period articulate the importance of kinship and cultural traditions in shaping their cinematic practice. Sooraj Barjatya, the director of HAHK, stated on the Rajshri Productions website, “I make films with the family at its centre, and for the family, because I’ve been brought up in an environment where the family mattered more than anything else. So it is but natural that my films reflect this point of view. My upbringing, though not totally conservative, has been very traditional, and it is this traditionalism you see reflected in the film.”
24
In the rest
of his remarks, Barjatya mentions how he “subconsciously imbibed” the images of family weddings, which led to their incorporation in HAHK.
The highly affective portrayals of “Indian-ness,” found in films like HAHK and DDLJ, coincided with the influx of American programming on satellite television in India. Such films represented a response to the altered media landscape within India by a generation of filmmakers who were in their early twenties when satellite broadcasts began in the country. Aditya Chopra, the director of DDLJ, which was heralded as starting the trend of films focusing on the diaspora, spoke at great length with me about satellite television and how it clarified his sense of cultural identity and crystallized his goals as a filmmaker:
There is some stuff shown on satellite which you might not agree with ethically or morally or whatever, and you want to show to them that listen it’s cool—it’s good you watch all this—but don’t forget we’re Indians and we can still entertain, and we can still have fun with our own culture. You don’t have to take your clothes off and dance! And dance to a music which actually doesn’t make sense. You can listen to a folk kind of a song and have the same fun. So that’s what I think cable and TV helps you, it sets up your goals more clearly. This is what we’re up against and this is also what we should be able to do. (Aditya Chopra, interview, April 1996)
Chopra’s remarks present a strong sense of national identity, and anxiety over the impact of satellite television on ideas about entertainment and sentiments of cultural belonging. His proprietary attitude about culture and sense of purpose as a filmmaker was to counter satellite television’s potential role as an agent of cultural imperialism. Speaking about the younger generation, Chopra posited his mission: “The basic attitude of the youth is that whatever you see that is foreign is cool, so you need to actually shake them up and say, ‘It’s cool to be Indian!’ ” (Aditya Chopra, interview, April 1996). In Chopra’s statements, the meaning of “cool” extends beyond its connotations of approval and desirability to include cultural sovereignty and national pride. The connection between coolness and cultural pride was referenced a decade later by Shravan Shroff, who asserted that Hollywood would not be able to wipe out filmmaking in India, like it had in other parts of the world because “Indians just love their own films and I think it’s really cool” (Shravan Shroff, interview, May 2006).
Chopra’s cultural pride came across strongly when recounting his inspiration for making DDLJ. He stated that he had initially wanted to
make an international film that would showcase to the world—by which he really meant Western audiences—through a love story, the essence of Indian culture, in terms of emotions, sociality, and kinship behavior: