One flew over the Coocoo’s nest

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Once there were film producers, now there are CEOs, COOs, COOCOOs GMs, MDs and XYZs. In fact, practically every film boasts of so many banners, sponsors, tie-ups, and miscellaneous collaborators that you’re not quite sure who contributed what, when and why to the final product.

Post the much-extolled corporatisation of film production — almost a decade-old now — I’ve flown in and out of the COOCOO’s nest, and lived to tell the tale. After much self-flagellation, I’ve come to the conclusion that I have an above-the-cut script, the best technical crew in the business all set, a very gifted ensemble of actors, a chart-burning music composer just waiting to go dhinchika chika, and all the blessings of somebody up there. And then I’m brought crashing down to ugh. Permit me then, to share my three-and-a-half telling crashes of the corporate kind.
Wow, there I was, walking on sunshine. I had an appointment with Ektaa Kapoor of Balaji Telefilms (tele?... okay, never mind). I’d seen her as a cherub whenever I’d interview Jeetendra. Now, she was my Facebook buddy. Like the rest of the nation, I thought she’s smart, successful, sparkling.
The agenda for the appointment: three film scripts up my sleeve. She exulted that she was looking forward to our coffee session at the Indigo, a pebble’s throw away from her office complex. Sprayed with the subtlest cologne that a duty-free can supply, I landed at the joint to stir sugar cubes — not with her but with cinematographer-turned-director Anil Mehta. He happened to be there, sounded peeved about how his La Dixit comback danceroo, Aaj Nachle, had fared. Slowly but surely I was getting peeved about the clock tick, tick, ticking while sms’es inform me ‘on da way’ , ‘20 mins’, ‘Bddddd traffik’. Plus lots of sad smilies. ‘C U soooooooonesttttt’.
No problemo. I wasn’t going to let the delay of an hour or two come in the way of my next movie. So just chilled-chilled with the third scalding hot coffee. Meanwhile, Anil was falling asleep listening to my strictly vegetarian jokes, but hey, there’s Ektaa surrounded by bodyguards beefier than Salman Khan. Some more coffees later Ektaa whooped with delight over a story about a psycho-killer I’d narrated. Clapped she, “I love psychos.” Then she looked me straight in the eyes, as if I were one.
A sunrise later, I met up with her CEO and COO, plus two unintroduced men, in a cabin, full of chairs, tables and a desk the size of billiards table. Said the man behind the billiards table, “Chal suna, jo bhi hai tere paas.” Roughly translated that would go, “Hey buster, begin your spiel.”
Suddenly, I felt as if I was a male Pakeezah being commandeered at this CEO’s tabla. I left, saying, “Thank you.” I FB messaged Ektaa that it didn’t quite work with her corporate honcho, she went silent, now we aren’t FB buddies. End of my psycho, too.
Next: A young woman, 20ish, looking as if she’d just eaten something disagreeable for brunch, darted me a glance or two as I lounged in her skyscraper penthouse. She was, perhaps still is, the COO for her dad’s film-production-video-mechandising- establishment. Her dad, at the gong on one (in the afternoon) inquired if I’d like a quick whisky. Nope, no whisky please, quick or slow. Disappointed that he didn’t have a quaffing buddy, he showed me around the wonderful abode, acquired after eons of blood, sweat and glycerine tears.
Tour over, Daughter Disagreeable said tersely, “We don’t want any art-wart movie, boss!” Boss? Who me? That’s a good beginning. “It must be for the masses,” she warned. I nodded several times over. And then she delivered the punch-line, “Right now we are busy with three or four big films…in Panchgani, Paris, Chandigarh. So you write a courtroom drama. Make an appointment with me after three or four months.” Months? Thank the lord, not years.
Dad apologised, “Daughter is very strong girl. She knows what will sell, what will not. She doesn’t know who you are, wait a minute. I will tell her.” Mission Futile. Dad and she huddled in the furthest distance of the enormous marbled room, they almost came to blows. I don’t know what they concluded, but dad said, “Daughter is very strong girl. Now at least you must have whisky… Scotch… Blue Label… not Black… Blue.” No thanks, and ever since that high noon encounter haven’t touched a drop of whisky. Black or Blue. And have been put off courtroom dramas incurably.
Most memorably, there was this call from the entertainment division of an industrial tycoon (bet you know who). The COO, rather tetchily informed me, “He wants to meet you.” I lit up like a thousand birthday candles. The voice added crossly, “I don’t know what he wants to meet you for but will let you know.” The plot thickened. I drawled, “Aaah yes, I’d met him at this do...” He intervened, “What’s a do?” I ignored that to say, “He was very keen on doing this big-scale film about a courtesan... with Aishwarya Rai.” “Oh,” the voice froze.
And has remained frozen. A weekend later, a rather jolly-ho CEO of another industrial tycoon showed up at an ice-cream parlour to hand me two historical books about the Mughals. Over a mouthful of rum ‘n’ raisins, I was told, “Sir wants you to make a big-scale film about a courtesan... with Aishwarya Rai.” I ignored my vanilla cone and breezed, “That’s odd. I was told the same thing by…”
The books are still with me. Still in my book shelves. That Mughal courtesan dream opus of neither of the tycoons didn’t see the light of the projector.
Honestly, just give me the good, old-style film producer any day. He’d chew paan, light up a 555 cigarette, and exhale grandly, “Picture banate hain.” Full stop, the project would actually roll and rock. No psychogiri, no rum ‘n’ raisins then.