Fireworks through a Curtain

What Happens When Everyone’s a Filmmaker (But No One Loves Films)

I think this started about 10 years ago. Suddenly, everyone around me was writing a feature film. Everywhere I went, people were working on something pathbreaking — obviously within permissible Bollywood limits. When they weren’t writing scripts (in Khandala or Spain, with two other writers of some repute), they were ‘meeting’ someone consequential from Netflix or Prime.

Even in cafés, if you accidentally glanced at someone’s iPad, you’d see Final Draft open at a crucial juncture — from where the story would take a dangerous turn. For the worse, I would imagine.

These friends of mine would casually drop Bollywood names on a first-name basis. I’d feel bad listening to it. Wow, this one has really arrived. He calls Karan Johar just Karan. They split a tiramisu! Karan is just like us! They’d rattle off names of other producers and actors the same way. And I’d just sit there gawking. I had a sneaky suspicion they were talking through their ass — but part of me wanted to believe it. That all my acquaintances were firmly entrenched in the Bollywood quicksand.

I’d imagine them playing Monopoly with Ranbir Kapoor. Then quickly imagine myself in their place. And them in mine — in a local bar, envying me. I became miserable.

Luckily, COVID intervened. Everything came to a halt. The stories didn’t. My friends continued developing a deeper and deeper understanding of the film business. They became privy to Bollywood’s deepest frustrations. Its problems became theirs — at least in conversation.

But thanks to COVID, some of the veneer had dropped. Their stories lacked conviction. And then came YouTube. Because they had nothing better to do all the attention-hungry film guys flocked to YouTube to speak their hearts out. The secondhand news I’d been fed became firsthand — straight from the horse’s mouth. I started beating them to the punch. They’d try to peddle a new theory about a star or star-maker, and I’d already heard it from their makeup artist. Or their mother. Or both.

This must have frustrated them no end. How could a YouTube-watcher peasant nobody be ahead of the divine transmission?

Still, something about all of it struck me as odd. None of these would-be filmmakers — a few of whom briefly became the real thing — ever seemed to actually love films. I mean really love them. No one talked about story. No one got excited about a performance, or argued about an ending. No one wrestled with ten different story options that were driving them mad.

All I heard was: the hustle.

What the fuck is that? I don’t know. I think it’s when you talk about the business like a CNBC analyst, but feel superior because you’re doing it in the context of ‘creative work’ instead of some company hauling coal.

I never called them out. I still listen to them, nodding as someone compares one distributor to another. When I hear a star’s fortunes have waned, I feign interest to the best of my abilities. But I couldn’t take it forever. Besides, this was a very particular kind of social and creative pretension — common in urban circles, especially those skimming the surface of the film world. And like in movies, it was time for the hero to rise, and intervene.

So I decided to try making a film myself. I thought: what better way to understand how it works?

Also, I’ve watched more movies than all of them put together — and then some. How wrong could I get it?

So, this New Year, I wrote a film. By Jan 15, it was done. By Jan 30, it was ready to go. Nowhere in particular — but still, ready. The cast included Aamir Khan, Tabu, Saba Azad, Ananya Pandey, and Akshara Haasan. With Ajay Devgn and Dimple Kapadia in small, sweet guest appearances. Dimple as a lesbian, mind you and Ajay as a brooding poet.

I called it Fireworks Through a Curtain, in case it ever got invited to Cannes.

Obviously, I didn’t want to show it to anyone. For all practical purposes it was a jerk-off but if someone asked, I wouldn’t say no. Three people asked. I mailed them immediately. It’s been three months. No reply.

Meanwhile, I’m on my third script. The Bollywood name-droppers? They’ve not heard the last of me. Unless they change their email.