Khalid Mohamed

Original stories seem to be ignored like the plague in movieland. It’s always nice to have a Hollywood inspiration
Normally, I don’t dip into quotations and proverbs. Except while ticking off badly behaved children. But something was bugging me of late. And a chance discovery of a series of articles by a heavy-duty American screenwriter sorted out my bugaboo.

Writes David Mamet, “Storytelling is like sex. We all do it naturally. Some of us are better at it than others.” To that he adds, “One learns through experience, but basically, it is a human instinct.” This, Mamet believes, is dying or already dead. Wah! Instantly, I understood that a majority of film people no longer go by their personal instincts. Indeed, Akshay Kumar had once famously stated that he runs every script through his chauffeur. He is the target-audience.
My intention isn’t to downgrade a chauffeur’s judgement at all. The hardworking chap knows the kind of entertainment he wants at the end of the day. Perhaps that’s why Akshay Kumar has sustained a 21-year-old career, albeit with its troughs and crests. The major snag is that quite frequently a story (read screenplay outline) is also submitted to a jury which comprises the Mrs, the family astrologer, and above all, the project’s financier.
So there I was, invited to dinner by a Bollywood moneybags. At the end of the generous repast, the saas, bahus, infant kids and pet pomeranian (honestly) occupied their ordained places on a multitude of plastic-covered sofas. I sat close to the financier, expecting a Bailey’s Irish cream. To my horror, he announced grandly, “Our guest will now narrate the story of the film we want to... umm... might make.”
Nervously, I spinned out a yarn which had the brood yawning. And went home feeling quite like a discarded paratha. I had been nixed on the grounds that my story revolved around a woman. “Ladies pictures don’t sell,” Mrs Financier had said with a strong black coffee voice. “Yeh Dirty Virty Picture, Kahaani Vahaani and English Binglish chal gayee. But we can’t take risks. Family ko maintain karna hai.”
Obviously, I hadn’t performed well that evening. Months later, feeling quite in the mood, I met a movie baroness. Well-prepared, I narrated a modified version of Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho. She clapped, “Indian Psycho — too good title! I am excited. I jusssst love horror. Meet my CEO tomorrow and sign the contract.” Yippee. Next: Shaved clean and cologned and looking quite desirable (I hoped), I entered the CEO’s cabin. Disappointingly, the baroness hadn’t employed a woman in the top rung.
Instead, I had to do my number before a thirtyish dude who confided that he had given up a swanky banking job in London to move to Lokhandwala. Now that’s a story, I laughed. He ignored me. With a thunderous thud, he plonked a leg in a Gucci shoe on the table, and looked at me as if I were a male Pakeezah who’d break into a mujra. I turned speechless, to which he snapped his fingers, “Come on, come on, out with your story. Madame has liked. But she has left the decision to me.”
Since I have no talent for mujra, I left. Madame and I, super friends on Facebook, deleted each other. Actually she’s a sweetheart, I would have done anything for her, even a mujra. But for the pleasure of a London-returned CEO, never!
To conclude, the stories I see at the movies all seem to have a source, be it Chakravyuh (Becket), Kahani (Taking Lives) and Barfi! (Chaplin etc, it’s been howled). So where are the originals ripped off from the pages of our own lives? Guess they’re non-existent or in short supply. Maybe, then, like Mamet maintains, we no longer go by our natural instincts.