DUB Speak

The Quintessential Indian Filmmaker

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Recognition in the international arena; every Indian filmmaker worth his two bits of tear jerker wields the camera propelled by this very desire. Much like the storyline, his dreams are rather predictable and more often than not revolve around golden statuettes; a full- fledged confetti shower and Emma Stone and Megan Fox shaking their derriere in tune with one of his songs in the background. For the Indian filmmaker, the ethereal glitz and glamour of the Academy Awards is the pinnacle of success. There is nothing more mind numbingly awesome than to have an Oscar handed to you by a Billy Crystal or a Meryl Streep while the entire world watches on. The filmmaker would radiate a newly-acquired-Oscar glow and the world would beam back respect. Back home, at least one state’s population would try desperately to clutch on to some branch of the filmmaker’s now suddenly expanding family tree.

With the promise of such instant repute and glory, the filmmaker knows in his heart of hearts that his upcoming project has to be the next big thing on the Oscar front. To achieve the same, the Indian filmmaker seeks extensive counsel on both the script and the protagonist who will bring the story to life. The Chosen One is made to give a gazillion takes till that swishing of hair, flicking of glasses and circles of cigarette smoke are immaculate. The expressions of the One are refined and polished to such an extent that with one piercing look the audience is captivated. Exotic locations are handpicked and those rejected rue the day they came into existence. A fine balance of emotions, scandal and action with a dash of Indian-ness is concocted and the filmmaker has produced a piece of artistic brilliance; a Dabbang/ Bol Bachchan/ Student of the Year/ Housefull etc is born.

Reception from the audience exceeds expectations. The Indian filmmaker now acquires his own metaphoric Ecstasy; it is pumped into his system every time rabid fans drool at his direction. There is a certain popping of buttons as the chest size inadvertently increases. The beaming grin however, fades a tad when critics universally pan the film while going gaga over a Kahaani/ A Wednesday/ Firaq/ some other low-budget-minus-exotic-locales movie. It fades a lot more when the filmmaker’s brainchild isn’t the country’s entry for the Oscars. The filmmaker is distraught and what begins is a wearing down of the family’s exquisite Persian carpets owing to the endless pacing. He is unable to put his finger on the reason behind this dry spell. Slumdog Millionaire is brought forth and notes are compared; action, emotion, poverty, scandal, it’s all there; still that glowing dream has once again been reduced to a hazy distant picture.

The filmmaker is unable to get his head around this conundrum. He gives up trying to reason, vows to bag the Oscar with a bigger film oozing glamour in the future, and till then be content with domestic adulation and drool.

[email protected];Fact is, writing about myself has to be the single most harrowing thing I’ve ever done. Considering I’m the Editor that particular fact would elicit a bigger ‘tsk tsk’ than expected, yes, yes, it is ignominious and all that jazz. If I were to venture out and say I’m smart, it would make me arrogant. If I were to say I’m dumb, I’d be a downright liar. So, the only thing I can say without trepidation and the fear of God(or whatever entity it is that’s doing the rounds these days) is probably that I’m a third year Economics student at Sri Venkateswara College.

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