Which is why the unrelenting rain that forms the backdrop of Ennu Ninte Moideen (a recent hit Malayalam movie) was a comforting presence than a distracting nuisance. The gripping tale of love across unbridgeable feudal taboos … wait a minute … this is not a movie review. I am not a movie critic, nor a poet or given to philosophy. I am here to talk about how watching this movie and some inside knowledge about its producers brought memories of my close encounters with the Malayalam filmdom—encounters that kindled hopes of, you know, starpower, celebrity, and the good life, only to crash and burn like a half-smoked beedikutti (a cigarette butt) thrown on the roadside.
I had read somewhere that moviemaking is the graveyard of NRI dreams, a land where overseas Indians enter to divest themselves off their hard-earned earnings. The endeavor carries enormous risk, foremost being the unknowable, or more likely nonexistent, rules of financing and dealmaking in Kerala. Throw in the noxious mix of the astrologers, superstition, and the underworld that hold sway in large swaths of life, and you get the picture of why the less risk tolerant left for safer pastures in the first place.
A bizarre meeting with a leading Malayalam movie actor added to my puzzlement when I heard the news that local Malayalis were venturing to produce a movie in Kerala. On a fine Saturday evening a few years back, I found myself in the company of about five other long-term Washingtonians seated around an ornate dining table at a friend’s house. Holding court at the head of the table was the actor, by all appearances a decent fellow. The actor’s identity is not germane to my point, so I will skip that. What is important is that he was describing in excruciating detail certain goings-on inside the Obama White House. The tale involved some Hindu sacred verses, a priest, and one of those tiny statues of Hindu gods that are handed out in some temples. It was a totally delusional account with not a hint of a connection to reality. Yet there he was speaking with an air of certainty that would put a mathematician contemplating the permanence of the Euler’s Formula to shame. Even worse, not one among his captive audience mustered the courage to challenge his fantastic account. We sat around nodding our heads like eager kindergartners listening to their school teacher reading the Rumpelstiltskin.
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| Risky move, remarkable success |
"Sour grapes, huh?" my wife asked, seeing my skepticism. She had heard evolving versions of my brush with the stars, each retelling slightly bitter sounding than the previous.
It started in the 8th grade. I was walking along the school campus with a bunch of classmates when a teacher yanked me from the group and paraded me in front of some visitors. They looked me over head to toe, discussed in hushed tones what sounded like my physical inadequacies, a lack of height in particular, and dismissed me as quickly as I was summoned. I later learned that the visitors were scouting for a young actor. Tantalizingly close, yet not to be.
Being considered and rejected is one thing, being ignored altogether is quite another. And when the person ignoring you is the great Balachandra Menon (a Malayalam actor-screenplay writer-director with a pronounced self-aggrandizing streak), the pain sticks with you. Here’s what happened.
It wasn’t until college that I had my next brush with the film world. Due to strikes and hazing (ragging)-related closures, our academic calendar was in shambles. To make up for the lost time, our batch was in a rare summer session, while others were out enjoying their break. However, it turned out that the stars were aligned in our favor, so to speak. A film crew landed on the campus and started shooting a movie. Naturally, our class provided the backdrop, and we the extras.
It was Mr. Menon and his cast filming Prema Geethangal (Love Songs). Although we put on airs and showed an adversarial front initially, things turned amicable as soon as Mr. Menon began shooting scenes in our class and the beautiful actress Ambika smiled at us from across the set. I ended up fleetingly in some scenes. The result was momentarily pleasing. For a few days after the movie release, kids in my neighborhood chased me around yelling "Prema Geethangal!" "Prema Geethangal!"
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| (Courtesy: gaana.com) |
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| Ambika |
“Is Mr. Gopi around?” he asked.
“No, he is away on travel. May I help you?” I answered, seeking to prolong the conversation.
“No thanks,” he said. “Just tell him I came by.”
With that, he turned around and headed for his car.
For days, I played around alternative scenarios in my mind, rueing the lost opportunity. But none provided a realistic pathway to regain Mr. Menon’s attention and leverage that as a springboard to stardom. I went back to preparing applications for my graduate studies in the U.S.
My father had better luck, at least for the length of a train journey. He was traveling from Thrissur, AC 2nd class on the Madras Mail, for a business trip. He was alone in the cabin and was browsing through his papers when a bearded gentleman joined him on the opposite seat. After some initial pleasantries, the gentleman introduced himself.
“I am Joshi,” he said. “I am a Malayalam movie director.”
It didn’t help that my father wasn’t a frequent consumer of Malayalam cinema. He was aware of Nazeer and the buxom Sheila from his youth, but Joshi, a director, not. The conversation would have ended right there, except Mr. Joshi bent down and picked up his suitcase. He placed it carefully on his lap, opened it, and produced a bottle of scotch, which he planted squarely in the middle of the shared tray table. Needless to say, the rest of the journey was quite pleasant, with free-flowing conversation about the superiority of Malayalam films over Bollywood fare.
For me though, bad luck continued. Back in college, the university youth festival was approaching. By then I was a Master's student and thus accorded some undue respect. Perhaps because of that, I was recruited to a stage play based on an Anton Chekhov story. After some intense practice sessions directed by a talented student from the nearby School of Drama, the play went on to win the top prize at the youth festival. Although in the beginning, it seemed I was the lead character and another student played the supporting role, he ended up winning the best actor award. I was given the 2nd best actor.
“You know, there is no such thing as a 2nd best actor. There is the best actor, and the rest,” a friend helpfully pointed out.
That put a quick end to my acting bid. The fate of the play’s director went in a quite different direction. He was Shyamaprasad, who would go on to direct several substantive movies, winning well-deserved fame and recognition1.
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| Let the fact win at the cost of dignity (Courtesy: Mathrubhoomi Weekly, July 13, 2014) |
“Hey, they are screening a Malayalam movie in the Montgomery College auditorium. You wanna go?”
“What’s so special about it to sacrifice a Saturday evening?” I asked.
“Oh, it’s Ore Kadal. It’s directed by Shyamaprasad,” she said.
“Wait a minute. Shyamaprasad? That’s interesting,” I said recalling the connection.
“The movie is about the extramarital relationship between an economist and a housewife,” she continued, tempting me with the storyline.
“Now that’s really interesting! What are the odds of that?,” I said, knowing a thing or two about economists, if not housewives. “We gotta go.”
Aside from curiosity about what this fictional economist was up to in his spare time, I had an ulterior motive for going to the movie. The announcement said the director will meet with the audience after the screening for a Q & A session. I could meet with Mr. Shyamaprasad, bring up how we were buddies one time—heck I believe we had a drink or two during the rehearsals—and get a toehold that was denied earlier.
So I went to the movie with my wife and our friend Lekha. I don’t remember much about the movie except wondering, “Why an economist?” “Why an economist?” At the end of the movie, Mr. Shyamaprasad appeared at the front of the auditorium. Once the Q&A was over, I walked down the steps to meet him.
I shook his hands and said “ I am Jayachandran,” using my full first name.
“Hello,” he greeted in return.
“You once directed a play at the Kerala Agricultural University youth festival. Remember?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“The play won the first prize for best drama,” I continued.
“Yes,” he said, looking sideways at an attractive woman who was approaching from his left side.
“I was in that play,” I persisted, prodding his memory.
“Yes.”
He glanced to his left and started wringing his hands as the woman drew closer. Then he turned back at me. His face had a look of boredom and he appeared ready to yawn, bringing the back of his palm toward his mouth.
“OK, nice meeting you. Best wishes, “ I offered. But he had already turned toward the woman. Beaming at her, he asked “Cinema ishtappetto?” (Did you like the movie?).
I turned around and headed for the exit.
Seeing my skepticism about the movie business, my wife asked “Sour grapes, huh?”
I think not.
1 I thank Vinod Variyam for providing me a copy of the Mathrubhoomi Weekly with the picture of Mr. Shyamaprasad and the cast of a college stage play he directed. For the record, the picture is of a play staged in my senior year. The Anton Chekhov play mentioned in the article, which won me the nonexistant 2nd best actor award, was staged a year later.↩
