Salman Rushdie on Midnight's Children at 40

Il 3 aprile 2021 The Guardian ha pubblicato un testo di Salman Rushdie nel quale il celebre scrittore commenta i primi 40 anni del suo romanzo I figli della mezzanotte. Salman Rushdie on Midnight's Children at 40: 'India is no longer the country of this novel':

'For a writer in his mid-70s, the continued health of a book published in his mid-30s is, quite simply, a delight. This is why we do what we do: to make works of art that, if we are very lucky, will endure. As a reader, I have always been attracted to capacious, largehearted fictions, books that try to gather up large armfuls of the world. When I started to think about the work that would grow into Midnight’s Children, I looked again at the great Russian novels of the 19th century. (...) And at the great English novels of the 18th and 19th centuries. And at their great French precursor, Gargantua and Pantagruel, which is completely fabulist. I also had in mind the modern counterparts of these masterpieces, The Tin Drum and One Hundred Years of Solitude, The Adventures of Augie March and Catch-22, and the rich, expansive worlds of Iris Murdoch and Doris Lessing. (...) But I was also thinking about another kind of capaciousness, the immense epics of India, the Mahabharata and Ramayana, and the fabulist traditions of the Panchatantra, the Thousand and One Nights and the Kashmiri Sanskrit compendium called Katha-sarit-sagar (Ocean of the Streams of Story). I was thinking of India’s oral narrative traditions, too, which were a form of storytelling in which digression was almost the basic principle; the storyteller could tell, in a sort of whirling cycle, a fictional tale, a mythological tale, a political story and an autobiographical story; he - because it was always a he - could intersperse his multiple narratives with songs and keep large audiences entranced. I loved that multiplicity could be so captivating. (...)

The novel I was planning was a multigenerational family novel, so inevitably I thought of Thomas Mann’s Buddenbrooks and, for all its non-realist elements, I knew that my book needed to be a novel deeply rooted in history, so I read, with great admiration, Elsa Morante’s History: A Novel. And, because it was to be a novel of Bombay, it had to be rooted in the movies as well, movies of the kind now called “Bollywood”, in which calamities such as babies exchanged at birth and given to the wrong mothers were everyday occurrences. As you can see, I wanted to write a novel of vaulting ambition, a high-wire act with no safety net, an all-or-nothing effort: Bollywood or bust, as one might say. A novel in which memory and politics, love and hate would mingle on almost every page. I was an inexperienced, unsuccessful, unknown writer. To write such a book I had to learn how to do so; to learn by writing it. Five years passed before I was ready to show it to anybody. For all its surrealist elements Midnight’s Children is a history novel, looking for an answer to the great question history asks us: what is the relationship between society and the individual, between the macrocosm and the microcosm? To put it another way: do we make history, or does it make (or unmake) us? Are we the masters or victims of our times?

My protagonist, Saleem Sinai, makes an unusual assertion in reply: he believes that everything that happens, happens because of him. That history is his fault. This belief is absurd, of course, and so his insistence on it feels comic at first. Later, as he grows up, and as the gulf between his belief and the reality of his life grows ever wider - as he becomes increasingly victim-like, not a person who acts but one who is acted upon, who does not do but is done to - it begins to be sad, perhaps even tragic. Forty years after he first arrived on the scene - 45 years after he first made his assertion on my typewriter - I feel the urge to defend his apparently insane boast. Perhaps we are all, to use Saleem’s phrase, “handcuffed to history”. And if so, then yes, history is our fault. History is the fluid, mutable, metamorphic consequence of our choices, and so the responsibility for it, even the moral responsibility, is ours. After all: if it’s not ours, then whose is it? There’s nobody else here. It’s just us. If Saleem Sinai made an error, it was that he took on too much responsibility for events. I want to say to him now: we all share that burden. You don’t have to carry all of it.

The question of language was central to the making of Midnight’s Children. (...) Writing in classical English felt wrong, like a misrepresentation of the rich linguistic environment of the book’s setting. (...) In the end I used fewer non-English words than I originally intended. Sentence structure, the flow and rhythm of the language, ended up being more useful, I thought, in my quest to write in an English that wasn’t owned by the English. The flexibility of the English language has allowed it to become naturalised in many different countries, and Indian English is its own thing by now. (...) I set out to write an Indian English novel. (...) India is not cool. India is hot. It’s hot and noisy and odorous and crowded and excessive. How could I represent that on the page? I asked myself. What would a hot, noisy, odorous, crowded, excessive English sound like? How would it read? The novel I wrote was my best effort to answer that question.

The question of crowdedness needed a formal answer as well as a linguistic one. Multitude is the most obvious fact about the subcontinent. Everywhere you go, there’s a throng of humanity. How could a novel embrace the idea of such multitude? My answer was to tell a crowd of stories, deliberately to overcrowd the narrative, so that “my” story, the main thrust of the novel, would need to push its way, so to speak, through a crowd of other stories. There are small, secondary characters and peripheral incidents in the book that could be expanded into longer narratives of their own. This kind of deliberate “wasting” of material was intentional. (...)

When I started writing, the family at the heart of the novel was much more like my family than it is now. However, the characters felt oddly lifeless and inert. So I started making them unlike the people on whom they were modelled, and at once they began to come to life. For example, I did have an aunt who married a Pakistani general, who, in real life, was one of the founders, and the first chief, of the much feared ISI, the Inter-Services Intelligence agency. But as far as I know he was not involved in planning or executing a military coup, with or without the help of pepper pots. So that story was fiction. At least I think it was. Saleem Sinai went to my school. He also lived, in Bombay, in my childhood home, in my old neighbourhood, and is just eight weeks younger than me. His childhood friends are composites of children I knew when I was young. (...) But in spite of these echoes, Saleem and I are unalike. For one thing, our lives took very different directions. Mine led me abroad to England and eventually to America. But Saleem never leaves the subcontinent. His life is contained within, and defined by, the borders of India, Pakistan and Bangladesh. (...)

Forty years is a long time. I have to say that India is no longer the country of this novel. When I wrote Midnight’s Children I had in mind an arc of history moving from the hope - the bloodied hope, but still the hope - of independence to the betrayal of that hope in the so-called Emergency, followed by the birth of a new hope. India today, to someone of my mind, has entered an even darker phase than the Emergency years. The horrifying escalation of assaults on women, the increasingly authoritarian character of the state, the unjustifiable arrests of people who dare to stand against that authoritarianism, the religious fanaticism, the rewriting of history to fit the narrative of those who want to transform India into a Hindu-nationalist, majoritarian state, and the popularity of the regime in spite of it all, or, worse, perhaps because of it all - these things encourage a kind of despair. When I wrote this book I could associate big-nosed Saleem with the elephant-trunked god Ganesh, the patron deity of literature, among other things, and that felt perfectly easy and natural even though Saleem was not a Hindu. All of India belonged to all of us, or so I deeply believed. And still believe, even though the rise of a brutal sectarianism believes otherwise. But I find hope in the determination of India’s women and college students to resist that sectarianism, to reclaim the old, secular India and dismiss the darkness. I wish them well. But right now, in India, it’s midnight again'.

Sex, drugs, politics: how the streaming giants are blowing up Bollywood

Vi segnalo l'articolo Sex, drugs, politics: how the streaming giants are blowing up Bollywood, di Steve Rose, pubblicato ieri da The Guardian:

'“The three big ‘no’s in Indian cinema are sexuality, religion and politics,” says Anurag Kashyap. “And in Sacred Games we address all three.” The Netflix series, which Kashyap co-directed, takes viewers to places Bollywood rarely does. (...) A dense, tense crime saga that closely tracks real-world history: political and police corruption, organised crime, religious tension, nuclear terrorism. (...) There is blood, sex, and violence, not to mention a trailblazing transgender character. “You cannot do that in mainstream cinema and have an audience,” Kashyap says. “It’s a given that movie-watching in India is a family experience, a community experience. Families didn’t sit together to see Sacred Games.” (...)

With 1.3 billion people and more than 500 million internet subscribers, not to mention flatlining growth in other territories, the streaming giants have been moving into India big time. Both Netflix and Amazon launched their services there in 2016, taking on larger local rivals such as the Disney-owned Hotstar. (...) Not only are these companies telling stories Bollywood can’t, they are bringing them to audiences Bollywood can’t reach. Sacred Games was a phenomenon in India, but the show was watched by twice as many people outside the country, according to Netflix. (...)

Sacred Games is not the only boundary-pushing Indian show Netflix has released. There is supernatural horror Ghoul, set in a detention facility in a near-future India under martial law due to sectarian violence. There is cricketing drama Selection Day, based on the book by Booker prize-winner Aravind Adiga, and directed by British-Indian Udayan Prasad. On a very different tack was Lust Stories, an anthology of short films by four directors (including Kashyap), all focusing on female sexuality. (...) Amazon has also put out provocative content, such as Mirzapur, a crime saga infused with sex and violence, that would not get past the cinema censors.

At the other end of the spectrum was this year’s Delhi Crime, based on the horrific gang rape, torture and murder of Jyoti Singh on a Delhi bus in 2012. (...) Delhi Crime focuses on the manhunt for the six perpetrators, based on the real-life case files. The investigation is spearheaded by a female deputy police commissioner. (...) Powerfully portrayed by Shefali Shah, she is a different kind of heroine to the Bollywood norm: fortysomething, a sympathetic mother but also a formidable leader, who insists everything is done by the book. (...) A pacy police procedural that doubles as a wide-ranging societal survey. Although it is sympathetic towards the police, the series hardly casts India in a flattering light. This is a landscape of institutional sexism, societal indifference, self-serving politicians, endemic corruption, press leaks, power cuts, pollution and badly funded public services. Even to get a forensic team to a crime scene requires twisting arms and calling in favours. (...)

Even in cinemas, streaming giants are exerting an influence on Indian cinema, it seems. (...) Could this be the beginning of a brain-drain in Indian cinema? Could the streaming services start to erode Bollywood? (...) There is something to lose here. For all its inaccessibility, Bollywood is really the only substantial national cinema that has not been co-opted by the US and other foreign players. As Kashyap puts it: “Our biggest strength is our biggest weakness: that we do not need to sell a single ticket to a non-Indian to sustain ourselves.” It doesn’t have to be a zero-sum game, but the streaming companies have created an extra platform for more outward-facing Indian film-makers such as Kashyap. (...) Having been outsiders, they now find themselves in a position of unprecedented power and influence. The game has changed'.

Irrfan Khan: I object to the term Bollywood

Irrfan Khan in D-Day

Vi segnalo l'intervista concessa da Irrfan Khan a Nosheen Iqbal, pubblicata ieri da The Guardian. Irrfan Khan: 'I object to the term Bollywood':

'It's a shock (...) when he emerges from the hotel lift, the elevator ping cheesily announcing his megawatt smile. [Irrfan] Khan is (...) good-looking. True, (...) he is head-turningly handsome: tall, lean, raffish, chiselled. (...) The second surprise is that he's funny - in a dry, deadpan way that is all about the delivery. "You're an entertainment writer, then?" he says by way of introductory small talk. "It's culture, really," comes my prissy mumble. "Ah, yes, culture. Hmm. Which isn't entertaining at all, is it?" And we're off. (...) He is here for the season's flagship event: a masterclass at the BFI with Asif Kapadia, the director Khan gratefully credits for saving his career when, in the late 90s, he was considering quitting.

"I came into this industry to tell stories and do cinema and I was stuck in television." Which (...) meant soap operas "chasing middle-class housewives and the [poor and illiterate]. Once, they didn't even pay me because they thought my acting was so bad." Then Kapadia and The Warrior came along and Khan had suddenly bagged an acclaimed feature-film role. And a lead at that. "Asif and I have been longing to work together again since then. I've been watching his last film [Senna]. There was a pirated DVD version in India I could have watched but I thought, 'No, I want to watch it on a proper screen.'" He builds up the importance of really saving it, to appreciate Kapadia's Bafta-winner as intended. "I did eventually see it on a screen. A kind of tiny screen." Where? "Oh, on an airplane." And there's the humour, teasing throughout the edges of our chat.

Khan was born to Muslim parents in the Jaipur village of Tonk. His mother's side has royal lineage and his father's side was well-to-do, but Khan Sr was a self-made man. "He had a tyre shop but, really, he was a hunter." Khan, the eldest of two brothers and one sister, side-stepped the family business when his father died and escaped to drama school. "First, I pursued cricket, then I tried business, but I quickly got bored. Cut, cut, cut to drama school. No one could have imagined I would be an actor, I was so shy. So thin. But the desire was so intense, I thought I'd suffocate if I didn't get admission."

Three decades later and he is no less passionate. (...) Khan morphs on screen. He seems to disappear into the role, his face almost unrecognisable from one picture to the next: getting older and then younger-looking - blandly indistinctive at one turn, with sharp, penetrating features the next. 

Given his reputation for integrity, for being all about the craft (and he talks, at length, in those terms), it almost seems churlish to ask him about vanity and whether he's had work done. Almost. "I've never looked to create an image where people fall in love with my face or style. It does cross my mind. But I've been trying to create a space for myself where I don't depend on that." He is similarly vague about the beauty ideal in Bollywood - where he is arguably boxed into particular roles because the predominant aesthetic of the past two decades has been body buffed, skin-bleached. Even once-darker megastars (...) have endorsed "skin-whitening" products. As a darker, slighter actor, is there pressure to conform to the industry ideal? "I did try to do it but it made me feel empty. I cannot do things which don't come naturally to me. Initially, I did try everything. But you have to stick to your convictions and stand by your plus points. [Going to the gym] is not exciting for me. I want to connect with a story and hit [audiences] in the heart with a different way." It's perhaps this attitude and a distinct lack of baggage - "I don't have an image to protect" - that explains why he (...) has cracked both domestic and international markets. (...)

"I always object to the word Bollywood," he explains. (...) "I don't think it's fair to have that name. Because that industry has its own technique, its own way of making films that has nothing to do with aping Hollywood. It originates in Parsi theatre." So what defines Indian cinema? "Celebration, [we] celebrate everything and Indian cinema is an extension of that, so why did they lose their identity by calling it Bollywood?"

What about the indie Indian cinema scene - the "Hindies"? (...) How do they play at home? "They are doing great! That's why the industry is changing, because those films are bringing in money and they can't ignore it. Everybody's watching them." (...) "I wouldn't call [the Hindie films] arthouse but they do have a more original voice. You still have to entertain [Indian audiences], you cannot make them think. Or, you cannot leave them thinking. If you leave them thinking, you have to give them catharsis." I warn him this could sound grotesquely patronising in print. "But that is the way it is in India, they want an emotional connection. If you see a dark film that disturbs you, India won't take it. If it is tragedy, they will love it. They love to cry. That's for me, also. The first thing I do when I read a script is to find what hits me emotionally. That's what I connect to."

His harshest critics, he says, are his two sons. Not quite teenagers yet, but savvy enough to be telling him "what works and doesn't work for them. There is no bias. And they're my sons." His mother is proud, though he suspects she'd be happier if he gave it all up and became a teacher in his home town, as he once promised. "My mum is a conventional Muslim. Things I have learned from Islam are fantastic and I will carry them all my life but I am more open. I feel healthier that way." All in all, he seems pretty happy with his lot. Content and relaxed in a way that doesn't often come across with actors, no matter how successful. "Yes! I don't know why I get such cynical headlines. They always make me sound like I'm suffering from life. (...) I have lost the temptation for things that come through stardom. One day I'd like to enjoy my life without fame. Now... I enjoy it, you know?".'

India: best exotic movie hell?

Il 16 febbraio 2012 The Guardian ha pubblicato l'articolo India: best exotic movie hell?, nel quale Sukhdev Sandhu illustra la percezione che i cineasti occidentali hanno dell'India, e analizza la novità rappresentata da Marigold Hotel di John Madden e Trishna di Michael Winterbottom. Vi ricordo che Dev Patel e Freida Pinto, i due giovani attori esplosi con Slumdog millionaire, interpretano rispettivamente il film diretto da Madden e quello diretto da Winterbottom. Inoltre Anurag Kashyap e Kalki Koechlin offrono un cameo in Trishna, la cui colonna sonora è composta dal talentuoso Amit Trivedi. Di seguito un estratto dal testo di Sandhu:

'A new generation of western directors are bringing their outsider perspective to India. But can films such as The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel avoid the cliches of poverty and spiritualism, chaos and capitalism? (...) 

That difficulty - to say nothing of the challenge of depicting India in more than just western terms - led Louis Malle to name the first section of his six-hour Phantom India (1969) "The Impossible Camera". Yet, even though "India" in its teeming multiplicity may be as much a conceit as "the west", many directors have stepped up to this challenge. Jean Renoir's The River (1951), Roberto Rossellini's India: Matri Bhumi (1959), Fritz Lang's The Tiger of Eschnapur (1959), Pier Paolo Pasolini's Notes For A Film On India (1967), Werner Herzog's Jag Mandir (1991), and, yes, Danny Boyle's Slumdog Millionaire (2008) are just a fraction of the films that have sought to make their outsider perspectives a virtue.

Now joining that list are John Madden's The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel and Michael Winterbottom's Trishna. (...) In some ways, these films are poles apart. (...) It's precisely this fascination with India as a place in flux that the two films have in common. Historically, outsider artists have tended to portray the nation as old, spiritual, rural, in thrall to tradition. For some, this was its appeal, for others, a curse. In Dick Fontaine's Temporary Person Passing Through (1965), a melancholic James Cameron (the veteran journalist, not the director) laments: "There's too much of everything, too many people, too many cows, too many problems. Too much India, really." Now, in 2012, when Indian politicians are increasingly embracing neoliberalism and boasting of the country's Bric status, it's more likely to be depicted as a modern, urban, entrepreneur-friendly tiger economy. The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel (...) shows an India that's the dynamic antithesis to - even the cure for - a Britain defined by failed internet ventures, hip-operation waiting lists and cramped bungalow homes. (...) For Winterbottom the transformations in India serve to cast a cruel spotlight on Britain. (...)

Is there a danger that this fascination with the turbo-economics of the east becomes a new kind of orientalism, one in its own way as romanticising as Eat Pray Love's ascription of superior wisdom to India? Ashim Ahluwalia (...) believes it is: "In order to understand with any depth what it means to be Indian today, we should stop endorsing the collective fantasy of 'India Shining' - this laughable state of mind in which many modern Indians imagine a new incredible India that looks and feels like a first-world nation. (...) We've always been eating brains in Indiana Jones films or stammering awkward English sentences in various other western productions, so I don't think we have high expectations".'