The female gaze: 100 overlooked films directed by women

In 1968 Ida Lupino was the sole female director to merit an entry in Andrew Sarris’s auteur bible The American Cinema: Directors and Directions 1929-1968. Lupino’s films were dismissed in a sentence; the rest of Sarris’s pithy capsule drew attention to a “ladies’ auxiliary” in cinema, listing notable female directors of the silent era and later, as well as those “the jury is still out on” (Shirley Clarke, Vera Chytilová and Agnès Varda among them). Dorothy Arzner, who directed 13 films after 1929 (plus two she was not credited for), only gets mentioned as an auxiliary.

Although he didn’t question why there was such a paucity of female directors, Sarris at least highlighted the fact at a time when few others did, and extended his search for them beyond the US. However he needlessly resurrects Lillian Gish’s statement about directing being no job for a lady, and hardly skewers it (“Simone de Beauvoir would undoubtedly argue the contrary”).

Female directors didn’t fare much better in the pages of Sight & Sound in those years (despite a female editor, Penelope Houston), although when their films were released in the UK they received their due reviews in the then quarterly’s sister publication, Monthly Film Bulletin.

Illustration by Lorenzo Patrantoni for Sight & Sound © lorenzopetrantoni.com

Before the 1980s, of those filmmakers Sarris notes, only Chytilová, Varda and Leni Riefenstahl had features written about them in S&S, in addition to animator Lotte Reiniger, the Russian auteur Larisa Shepitko and avant-gardiste Maya Deren, who he didn’t. The first time Shirley Clarke’s career was appraised in these pages was in 1998, in her obituary.

Much vital work has been done since by critics, film historians, academics and programmers to write female filmmakers back into history. The damage, though, is deep-rooted. In April this year Vanity Fair credited Lupino as “one of the first” female directors “to crack the whip”, ignoring predecessors such as Alice Guy-Blaché and Lois Weber, who were working up to 50 years before her.

As Mark Cousins points out in his Dispatches column this month (see page 11), depressing female filmmakers working today, and the (justified) internet outrage they provoke, tend to obscure those filmmakers who have gone before. Other than decrying the status quo and highlighting and critiquing new films by female directors, what can a film magazine do? Well, one option is to cast light on great female-directed films that have slipped through the net of male-auteur-centred criticism and such canon-forming exercises as Sight & Sound’s Greatest Films poll.

With that in mind, contributors to this feature – who range from filmmakers to critics, academics to programmers – were asked to nominate a film by a female director they believe has been forgotten or unfairly overlooked.

In August 2007, S&S produced a similar ‘Hidden Gems’ issue, unearthing 75 lost and forgotten films by men and women, which shone a light on, among others, Nicole Védrès’s Paris 1900, Sally Potter’s The Gold Diggers and Barbara Loden’s Wanda (discussed below by Isabelle Huppert).

In recent years more under-appreciated films by women have resurfaced, such as Claudia Weill’s Girlfriends (explored by both Greta Gerwig and Allison Anders). We were never in any doubt that there were more out there.

This list’s focus is primarily the 20th century – before the democratising advance of digital technology made it easier for women to make films, and the galvanising force of the internet enabled a wider critical advocacy; but also to ameliorate short-term memory syndromes.

The list is dominated by features, since these need more money and support of the kind that’s been in short supply for female directors since the silent era – in the world of avant-garde short films, by contrast, women have faced men on more equal terms, and have enjoyed more success and critical esteem.

‘Forgotten’ and ‘overlooked’ are nebulous terms, particularly in the internet age, when everything is supposedly rediscovered, and our list of 100 films reflects that – including both undeniable obscurities (The Enchanted Desna by Yuliya Solntseva, who was name-checked by Sarris merely as “Dovzhenko’s widow”), as well as films by relatively lauded directors (such as Elaine May and Kira Muratova) that are either hard to find or not regarded nearly as highly as we feel they should be.

Sadly, a far simpler proposition would be to note those female filmmakers who are appreciated, and whose work is regularly seen in cinemas – though such a shortlist might reveal still deeper problems, dominated as it would be by white Europeans and Americans.

Few female filmmakers have had the luxury of making more than a couple of features. So how do you achieve auteur status with so few films to your name? And how much more quickly do your films fade from history as a result? As the number of films listed here by actresses turned directors shows, women have often had to acquire power in front of the camera before being allowed behind it.

Also included are films that stood at the edges of famous movements in cinema (Jacqueline Audry’s Les Petits Matins and the French New Wave, Lorenza Mazzetti’s Together and Free Cinema, Li Hong’s Out of Phoenix Bridge and China’s New Documentary Movement), which were obscured by the work of more renowned and prolific male directors.

Revealing, too, is the surprising number of female filmmakers who died tragically young: Barbara Loden, Sara Gómez, Kathleen Collins, Larisa Shepitko, whose films are highlighted here, but also Nicole Védrès and Forough Farrokhzad.

Of course, looking only at directors masks those women who work in other film industry roles – particularly those in the silent era, when women played a major part in all facets of filmmaking. As the only two female directors working in the Hollywood studios from the 1930s to the 60s, Ida Lupino and Dorothy Arzner were obviously important, but their careers don’t tell the whole story of women’s work and influence in the dream factory (see Mark Cousins’s previous S&S Dispatches columns on female editors or Lizzie Francke’s excellent book Script Girls). Nor should it obscure the fact that women were making great films outside Hollywood at that time – in the UK, Norway, Mexico, China and beyond.

Time for a disclaimer: this list is far from definitive, but we hope it gives a sense of some of the great, unduly neglected films made by women throughout film history from all over the world – and of the many others.

— Isabel Stevens

For further reading and the list of 100 movies head to BFI.

The ghosts of cyclists that haunt city streets

What if, rather than in cemeteries, tombstones were placed at the exact location of the deceased’s final moments? That’s the premise of the ghost bike: a white bicycle, often covered with flowers and a plaque, that is chained to a fence or a street sign as a memorial of a life lost in a cycling accident there. Since the first ghost bike was anointed by a bike mechanic who witnessed an accident in 2003 in St. Louis, Missouri, the project has spread to over 200 major cities around the world. But nowhere are ghost bikes more common than in New York City, where a dedicated team of volunteers builds and maintains the city’s hundreds of memorials. According to the project’s website, the white bikes “serve as reminders of the tragedy that took place on an otherwise anonymous street corner, and as quiet statements in support of cyclists' right to safe travel.”

Brooklyn resident Mirza Molberg began volunteering with the local ghost bike project in 2011. In 2016, his girlfriend, Lauren Davis, was fatally struck by a car on her bicycle en route to work. Hours after the accident, Molberg stopped at the site of Davis’s death. “There was no evidence [of the accident],” he said. “I created Lauren’s ghost bike the following week.”

Ethan Brooks’s short documentary, Ghost Bike, tells Molberg’s story. Much like the spectral bikes themselves, the film renders a personal tragedy universal.

“When you pass a ghost bike, there's always this moment of introspection,” Brooks told The Atlantic. “No matter how comfortable you are on the road, or absorbed in your own thoughts, a ghost bike snaps you back to reality. The placement of each bike, in the very spot where a cyclist was killed, makes the memorial personal, especially if you pass it often.”

Or, as Molberg says in the film, “it’s a reminder that I could end up as a ghost bike in just a second.”

(Source: The Atlantic)

How MGR came to Jayalalithaa’s rescue as her family fought over housekeys

An excerpt from ‘MGR: A Life’ by R Kannan:

The year 1965 would bring MGR and Jayalalithaa together, his most paired heroine and political successor. In the aftermath of MGR’s death, in April 1999, she would tell her interviewer Simi Garewal, ‘One-third of my life was dominated by my mother, the other part—a major one—was dominated by MGR. Two-thirds of my life is thus over. One-third remains, and this part of my life remains for myself . . .’

Once ‘terrified of meeting strangers’ and hating the limelight, Jayalalithaa, in her own words, was ‘propelled by fate into two high profile careers’—films and politics—neither of which she really desired or liked, but then, as she said, once she put her heart into it, she gave her fullest. She described her introduction to MGR in the autobiographical series that she wrote for twenty-four weeks, beginning in late 1978, that was later aborted. On the first day, on the sets of Aayirathil Oruvan she greeted MGR who said ‘welcome’ to her. It was to be a no-holds-barred welcome. He became her ‘mother, father, friend, philosopher and guide’ and ‘sort of took over [her] life’.

MGR was of a ‘very strong character’, like her mother, and he ‘dominated [her life] completely’ after her mother. She said she was ‘never in awe’ of him but ‘respected him a great deal’. She ‘admired his intellect’ and ‘felt a lot of sympathy for him because he had a hard life’, like herself.

MGR came to fill her mother, Sandhya’s, shoes after her death. Jayalalithaa wrote about a time when she had been unwell for two–three days, at the end of which she fainted at home on the sofa. The only man at home, her uncle, was out of town and her two aunts did not know how to respond. Jayalalithaa’s manager telephoned MGR for help. MGR called for a doctor and came over to Jayalalithaa’s place. The doctor wanted Jayalalithaa to be hospitalized and MGR asked the aunts to get ready. As the aunts did not come down, MGR decided to see for himself what was keeping them. What he saw was the sad spectacle of the aunts fighting over the house keys. An angry MGR took the keys from them and asked them to come downstairs.

It took some hours for Jayalalithaa to regain consciousness at the hospital. MGR was patiently waiting around all this time at her bedside and when she woke up, she did so in MGR’s presence. MGR handed over the house keys to her. She learnt of the circumstances only later.

‘I will always remember this act with gratitude. Who would have taken such trouble? He wanted to protect me, and he guarded them and handed them over to me. If not, I don’t know what all would have been lost! I cannot even imagine it,’ wrote a grateful Jayalalithaa.

Karnan’s (1964) director B.R. Panthulu offered Jayalalithaa a role in Chinnada Gombe (Gold Doll, 1964). Seeing the ‘rushes’ director C.V. Sridhar signed her up for his Vennira Aadai (White Dress, 1965), which became her debut Tamil film. Panthulu also signed up Jayalalithaa for Aayirathial Oruvan, as heroine opposite MGR.

MGR was shooting for Panam Padaithavan in the same studio that Vennira Aadai was being made. He entered the sets of Vennira Aadai one day and Jayalalithaa wrote that she was not aware that she had to greet the hero. Director Sridhar beckoned Jayalalithaa over and told her: ‘MGR has come. You are to act in his film . . . He is a big hero. Go greet him and talk to him.’ As Jayalalithaa folded her hands to say ‘vanakkam’, MGR motioned her to sit down. Jayalalithaa wrote that she did not remember what she was asked or what her response was.

***

Aayirathil Oruvan was only the third occasion. She would say later that the movie ‘laid the base for [her] political life’.

***

In the first scene in Aayirathil Oruvan, instead of thanking MGR for having freed her, Jayalalithaa’s character scorns him thus: ‘You have bought me, making me a slave worth 2 lakhs.’ As Jayalalithaa did the shot without any inhibition, MGR told her: ‘You remind me of Bhanumathi madam. After a long time, I see her courage, spirit, enthusiasm and zest.’ Jayalalithaa said ‘Many thanks’ in response.

Jayalalithaa would usually go in before the others, be seated next to the director and read a book, and sometimes, she would even cross her legs. No one had taught her to stand up and greet MGR or the others on their arrival. Two or three days went by like this. But later, some busybody drew MGR’s attention to this fact, persuading him that the behaviour was indifferent, if not disrespectful.* MGR appears to have spoken to Panthulu, who spoke to Sandhya, who in turn spoke to her daughter. Jayalalithaa grew upset, and said she would rather go back to college and quit acting. The following day, Jayalalithaa refused to come out of her room. Nambiar and MGR had already arrived at the set. As Sandhya enlisted Panthulu for help, he came home to plead: ‘I am older and ask you to do this for me.’ Jayalalithaa then said, ‘I will do it for you.’

After this, greeting MGR became a preoccupation for her. Sometimes MGR went directly to the shot. Jayalalithaa would go over, hang around to catch his eye so that she could quickly wish him and return to her seat.

On their first shoot for the song Naanamo (Are you shy?), she was to lie down on MGR, who was seated on a bed. It was their first night as per the movie. She said that until then no man had ever embraced her. The bed and the embrace made her shake involuntarily. MGR, who sensed that it was because of his embrace, asked her, ‘Why? Why this much weakness? Why so much nervousness?’

Sivaji Ganesan, Karunanidhi, MGR and Jayalalithaa

She also possessed a strong fighting spirit. When the Tamil Nadu Cricket Association (TNCA) refused her membership, saying no woman had been independently given membership—only wives, daughters or siblings of males had been admitted—Jayalalithaa said that her father died when she was a year old and she could not bring him back to life for the sake of the membership nor could she marry just to become a member. ‘Just because I don’t have a dad or a husband, how could you refuse me the membership?’ Of course she became the first woman member of the TNCA.

MGR appears to have been greatly fascinated by this brilliant convent-educated girl, who was indifferent to his superstar status, and the relationship proved most intense on and off screen.

She described their bond thus:

Our relationship is very peculiar. Although he is so much older than me, every spare moment on the sets we would spend talking to each other, discussing every subject under the sun. We used to talk about science, philosophy, literature. Both of us are deeply interested in classical music, astrology and astronomy. We have so much in common.

Among other things, they shared the same determination, charisma, crowd-pulling capability, and an interest in film and politics. But they were also very different, as time showed. While on the sets of Raman Thediya Seethai (Sita that Ram Sought, 1972), MGR, reading Jayalalithaa’s palm, told her that she would enter politics. ‘Me? In politics? No way,’ said Jayalalithaa. ‘Write it down, Ammu [Jayalalithaa]. My words will surely come true,’ he replied. Little did MGR know then that he would be the one to make those words come true.

(Source: TNM)

Growing up with Rahman and Ratnam: Why I'll always be a fangirl of the Magicians of Madras

Trains, rain, flirting eye contact with your crush. To this add a Rahman track. Tadaa! Magic, writes Shakti Swaminathan on TNM:

I still remember that day.  It was the year 1992 and we were travelling to Tirunelveli, our hometown, in a dusty Nellai Express, for the Independence Day holidays.

My father opened the day’s newspaper and drew our attention to the poster of Mani Ratnam’s latest movie, Roja. “This film is set in our town,” he announced rather emphatically. His excitement soon dissipated when he saw a new name amidst the credits.

The music director of this flick was a newbie called A.R Rahman.

Our family was a bunch of cutthroat Ilaiyaraaja fans. We worshiped his music. A little known boy who up until then was scoring jingles for ads was putting an end to the Raja- Ratnam love saga. It smelt like sacrilege. We were fuming and at the same time bewildered. Was he dethroning the king?

It’s been 25 long and glorious years of Rahman in our lives. With the release of Mani Ratnam’s latest venture, Kaatru Veliyidai on April 7, Rahman would be coming a full circle, completing silver jubilee in the industry with the man who started it all.

The partnership of Rahman and Ratnam is mystical, almost like a Khalil Gibran quote-  a union that draws the best of each other, complementary, while maintaining spaces and individual identity, a match made in heaven, the perfect relationship.

Invariably, the best work of Rahman has come under the tutelage of Ratnam, and Ratnam’s box office duds have remained in our collective conscious because though the movie may have failed us, the music didn’t.

As a petulant and impressionable 8 year old, my first love was the chart topper Chinna China Aasai. With each passing day, the Roja album was increasing in popularity and when it was listed among the 10 all-time best soundtracks of the world by TIME magazine, I couldn’t decide if I loved Pudhuvellai Mazhai or Kadhal Rojave more.

Pudhu vellai mazhai is the quintessential romantic song; the glass shattering like opening sequence is in perfect harmony with the visuals of a new bride encountering snow for the first time in her life. “Iru kaigal theendatha penmaiyai un kangal panthadudho”, (The femininity that couldn’t be kindled by hands, ie physically, succumbs to your eyes). How did the trio of Rahman-Ratnam- Vairumuthu, describe a woman’s mind so evocatively?

The falling in love of a married couple, discovering each other while exploring a new territory felt surreal while the love and loneliness was palpable in SPB’s soulful baritone in Kadhal Rojave. But my family was still adamant. Raaja’s songs are evergreen; Rahman’s will be short lived like his jingles they said. However, like many others, I was sold!

For the children of the 90s, summer was all about cousins, mangoes and family vacations to Kodai and Ooty.  Also called the decade of Rahman’s prime, we spent every road trip singing along to the audiotapes of Rahman’s latest. The Bombay tape, for instance, has screeched out of agony. Life hacks then included knowing which song to pause on A side so that it would stop at the song we wanted to listen to on side B.

While Thiruda Thiruda’s Chandralekha made us, the closet opera singers take a shot at screaming into a make-believe mic, the racy Humma Humma (Bombay) was our rite of passage to sexual awakening. (Every South Indian child remembers secretly enjoying the song on big screen while sitting next to an equally enjoying, but squirming parent)

Soon it was hard to keep our Madras Mozart hidden from the prying eyes of Bombay. It was time to share our legend with Bollywood and so we did with a little bit of pride and a lot of misgiving. We were jealous when Dil Se Re sounded better in Hindi and the Tamil Chaiya Chaiya lacked the punch that the original had. But we truly believed that he reserved the best music for us, the original connoisseurs.

Trains, rain, mirrors, and flirting eye contact with a cute guy across the wedding hall. To this add a Rahman track. Tadaa!  Magic. There is a no greater testimony to the adage ‘the whole is a sum of its parts’ than Mani Ratnam’s films that are a perfect amalgamation of music, lyrics, and stunning visual aesthetic.

Ratnam, they say, also extracts the best performance from his actors (who would ever believe that Iruvar was Aishwarya Rai Bacchan’s first film?)  I admit that I was a hormonal teenager in the early 2000s when Alaipayuthey released, but there wasn’t a single girl whose heart didn’t skip a beat at the opening shot of Madhavan riding a bike while Endrendrum Punnagai played on. We didn’t lust at Maddy in other movies as much as we did in Ratnam’s.

Over the years, I trudged my feet across the line, from being an incurable romantic to the cynic who cannot watch a romantic movie without wanting to sigh every half an hour or hold my head in agony. The irritation simmered to a new high when I watched OK Kanmani, the story of a young couple falling in love over a couple of cutesy zingers before tumbling predictably into holy matrimony.

A goofy Dulquer managed to thaw me a little. I had almost given up on the film when the mellifluous Ay Sinamika, in the velvety vocals of Karthik appeared. It made me want to fall in love all over again, at least for those five minutes.

Chart toppers aside, the underrated Easter eggs of Rahman’s have always been my personal favourites- the achingly beautiful Poongatrile (Uyire), the flirty Nenjam Ellam (Ayutha Ezhuthu) or the classic Ay Hairathe (Guru).

Every time I listened to the brilliantly orchestrated Thee Thee (Thiruda Thiruda), my  brain would choreograph the perfect dance moves, but alas they would sadly translate into a jumble of flaying legs and arms in reality. Perhaps that’s the genius of Ratnam, the ability to execute the images in his mind’s eye into eye-catching visuals like the haunting Naan Varuven from Raavanan set to the arresting visuals of Vikram plunging to death or the slow- motion sequences of Kadhal Sadugu, sung as a mischievous ode by SPB Charan.

Though Rahman is part of several other successful collaborations, with directors Shankar, Gautham Menon and Imitiaz Ali, the Rahman-Ratnam duo have the old familiarity, like the nostalgia and comfort of coming home. They made us long for people we’ve never met. They were balm for the soul.

The release of Kaatru Veliyidai reminds me of a simple joy of life; of buying an audiotape, knowing that the album will be terrific. Rolling on the bed and listening to a track on loop, while the mind happily wanders away.

But, things have changed now. I have downloaded the soundtrack, but I also have a toddler who thinks my lying on the bed is an invitation to bounce on my tummy or bangs on the bathroom door incessantly, noticing that I have smuggled the portable speaker in.

The night falls. The husband and baby are safely tucked into bed. I open iTunes, fish out my noise cancellation headphones and press play. Vaan varuvan.. varuvaan…  I am in a trance.

Vaan varuvan? Yes Rahman is back.  And life is good.

Tamil films: How north Chennai marks its presence while Kodambakkam thrives

Chennai was born in the north and grew southward. While places in south and west such as West Mambalam, Adyar or Egmore neighbourhoods of Mani Ratnam or Gautam Menon (kings of the Chennai padam), ruled Tamil cinema for long, north Chennai is fast making inroads into cinematic storytelling.

‘Enga area ulla varadhe… Enga area ulla varadhe!’ sings a school-uniform wearing Dhanush. ‘Pudhupettai, Kasimedu, Ennooru, Vyasarpadi - enga area. Anna Nagar, KK Nagar, T Nagar, Boat Club - unga area.’ “This is our area, don’t you dare enter it,” is roughly how the song in Pudhupettai (2006) goes, demarcating rich neighbourhoods in the centre, west and south of Chennai from ghettos up north.

Chennai was born in the north and grew southward. “North Chennai traditionally had factories - it’s more working class,” says film historian and wildlife conservationist Theodore Baskaran. It was the south that became the new ‘Madras’ with its wealthy residential localities and the middle class. Today, north Chennai lies neglected by fellow residents and the powers that be. And traditionally it used to be neglected by cinema too. “This is because there is just no place to shoot in north Chennai,” says AR Venkatachalapathy, historian, and Professor at Madras Institute of Development Studies. “Unless you want a film to be set in the north, which we’re seeing as a new trend now.”

It’s a substantial trend in a city that defines Tamil cinema and is defined by it. North Chennai was the setting for a bunch of post-2000 movies: Gemini, Pudhupettai, Polladhavan, Idharkuthane Aasaipattai Balakumara and Madras. Tamil movies frequently immortalise the abandoned north - usually through unforgettable villains like ‘Pattasu’ Balu (Thiruppachi) and Selvam (Polladhavan), and occasionally through the hero, as in Pudhupettai. “North Chennai is now getting its representation through gaana paatu (city folk songs on poverty, life in the slums, love, loss and struggles) and in movies based entirely on the locality like Irudhi Suttru for example,” Baskaran says.

So when Madras (2014), set in the northern Chennai neighbourhood of Vyasarpadi, arrived, it did a daring thing - saying that north Chennai was Madras, not the West Mambalam, Adyar or Egmore neighbourhoods of Mani Ratnam or Gautam Menon, kings of the Chennai padam. In Madras, filmmaker Pa Ranjith (who went on to make Kabali) detailed a rich account of everyday life in the slums - that it’s not just gangsters who live there as seen in Pudhupettai, but also hip-hop lovers, working class men, women and IT professionals, giving the world a fuller vision of Chennai’s thriving Dalit communities.

But north Chennai has an unexpected older connection to the movies - printing presses. This is where aspiring lyricists and scriptwriters come to start their career. Take 26-year-old Padmavathy, who moved to Chennai from Tiruchi, determined to become a lyricist. Padma loved writing couplets and poems in Tamil, and found her way gradually into films after a chance participation in a TV show and when people started recognising her on the street after.

“I enjoyed the publicity and the praise, but my one dream was to live in Chennai and settle down in Saligramam or Kodambakkam, because it’s where most directors and people from Tamil cinema live. My father wanted me to settle down in Australia.”

She found herself a house in Velachery in south Chennai and made a beeline to north Chennai in search of cheap printing presses for her first book - an accepted mode for the struggling writer. She printed dozens and dozens of copies of her poems and songs, and then handed them to every director she could find. Her friends with more genteel aspirations wondered how ‘safe’ she would be, travelling to that part of the city. “Local area nu solluvaangale… [People would call it ‘local’ in a derogatory way]. I’d buy a 50-rupee bus pass for the day and travel to Parrys, Chintadripet, Pudupet…” And one of those books (ironically printed in a press in south Chennai) led to her first break. Today, Padma assists directors with film scripts and TV series, and writes lyrics.

It’s in north Chennai that 24-year-old assistant director Muthu Rasa Kumar has had the most fun; it was his favourite area in the city, simply because it used to remind him of home, Madurai. His anecdotes of north Chennai are cinematic. “The place is fun, joyous - ellarum sagajam-aa iruppaanga [everyone’s simple and easygoing]. Even a bus ride there is eventful; once a couple of people were talking about a death in their friend’s family; a minute later they broke into a gaana paatu!”

Kumar and Padma are classic strugglers in the Tamil film industry, or Kollywood as it is known, and their knowledge of Chennai is intimate.

When Muthu Rasa Kumar was a student (he was pursuing an MA in Journalism from Madras University; he was innocently convinced this would somehow lead to an AD job), he loved to roam the city - there was the scenic Marina Beach Road in Santhome, which was starkly different at night from what it was in the morning, ECR with its temples and proximity to Mahabalipuram and Pondicherry, Pattinappakkam much further away… “We [friends and I] used to stay overnight on Marina Beach on some days; sometimes the police would chase us, sometimes they’d tell us the good spots for sleeping. I’d talk to the tea sellers and the ice cream sellers, who’d do brisk business at night and they’d tell me all the crime spots,” Kumar says with a laugh.

Chennai, predictably for a city with a major movie industry (by December 23, 2016, Chennai had produced 196 movies that year), has always attracted cinema hopefuls from Tamil Nadu’s villages, who dream of making it big. Muthu Rasa Kumar bolted from Thenkarai, his small village in Madurai, via the superfast Nellai Express to the crowded Egmore station in Chennai, with hopes of becoming an assistant director. As soon as he arrived, Kumar made his way to bustling Triplicane to stay at a ‘mansion’ with three of his friends, who were already cramped in one room.

A mansion anywhere denotes a ‘large and impressive dwelling’ (think Beverly Hills or Kozhikode or Ahmedabad). But not in Triplicane, where space is hard to come by but rents are cheap, the variety of food never disappoints, and where cows roam with style. In Triplicane, mansions are beehive buildings brimming with bachelors - tiny rooms filled with rickety beds that house at least three people. The mansions have seen a number of cinema hopefuls - from the poet Kannadasan to director Bharathiraja to actor Raghuvaran. Triplicane, an area that’s older than Chennai, is a heterogenous mix with agraharams (traditional row houses occupied by brahmins), the stately residence of the Nawab of Arcot, the Pallava-built Parthasarathy Swamy Temple, the Sri Parthasarathy Swami Sabha, Chepauk cricket stadium and Vivekananda House, a salmon pink building that was originally built to store US-imported ice, but now celebrates Swami Vivekananda.

Triplicane isn’t the only mainstay of mansions - strugglers today stay in and around Vadapalani. There is another mansion in T Nagar, near the Mambalam station, full of hopefuls: it’s where directors Balaji Sakthivel (Kadhal) and KS Thangasamy (Raattinam) stayed when they were trying to make it big. Another in T Nagar called the Club House housed the famous actor-comedian Nagesh and later, lyricist Vaali.

For those who run away from their villages to realise their love for Tamil cinema - like Padma and Kumar - there is a knowledge that their dreams will be made in the Chennai neighbourhood called Kodambakkam. In Chennai’s west lies the greater Kodambakkam area - comprising Saligramam, Vadapalani and Valasaravakkam, and to an extent West Mambalam and T Nagar - home to the Tamil movie industry.

Forty two year old Ajayan Bala’s journey began in Pazhavanthangal, a suburb in Chennai. In 1995, inflamed by directorial ambitions, he moved to Kodambakkam where he stayed in a friend’s room at Director’s Colony and then to Samiyar Madam. Today, Bala, a writer-director resides comfortably in that cosy Kollywood hub, Saligramam.

Kodambakkam and Tamil cinema are inseparable bedfellows, just ask any Tamilian. Kodambakkam, according to one story, derives its name from when the Prince of Arcot kept his stables there. The “unpaved roads were often described as a ‘garden of horses’ or ‘ghoda bagh’” and thus the name became Kodambakkam. City historian V Sriram dismisses this theory and gives us a more probable one instead - that the earliest British records, dating back to 1661, refer to the place as ‘Corumbat’ and ‘Codamback’.

It was here that film studios were set up by the mid-1940s (the first studio to come up here was in 1935). Film historian Randor Guy writes that the Madras Electric Supply Corporation had built a power house in Kodambakkam but found no takers for it, which is why film studios were encouraged to establish their business there - there was Rohini, Film Centre, Bharani Studios, Vikram Studios, Golden Studios, Vauhini Studios and the world famous AVM. That’s how the area became the hub for Tamil cinema. Since studios were self-contained, all the shooting took place on sets. Kollywood was derived as an annoying yet inevitable portmanteau of Kodambakkam and Hollywood. And obviously, Kodambakkam became a subject for many movies and found a place in songs.

Raja Chinna Roja (1989) with Rajinikanth and Gautami in the lead was based on Raja’s (Rajinikanth) struggles to get into Tamil films - the early parts portray how difficult it was for an aspiring actor to find a house in the city while also trying to get noticed: Raja visits studio after studio in Kodambakkam. Recently, Cheran’s Maya Kannadi (Mirror of Illusion) and Velli Thirai (Silver Screen, starring Malayalam actor Prithviraj) portray similar epic scrambles by the heroes.

In that way, Kodambakkam was self-sufficient. Not only did it house studios, but it was also home for costume makers such as Nathrang & Co (which set up shop in 1900) and K Nadhamuni & Sons (established in 1910), which has now shifted to Sowcarpet in north Chennai. Back then there was a need for grand outfits of kings, queens and princes, for swords and wigs. But with the drop in mythology-based films, these shops stick to supplying to theatre companies or school plays.

The same trend is happening with studios. “There aren’t many studios anymore - shooting takes place everywhere else. In fact, in and around Kodambakkam is where a lot of TV actors, not film actors, prefer to stay for the proximity to studios,” says actor-historian Mohan Raman.

T Nagar, that bustling neighbourhood which lies to the south of Kodambakkam, a once well-planned and peaceful locality with parks, temples, playgrounds and housing area, attracted actors such as MK Thyagaraja Bhagavathar, NS Krishnan, Vyjayanthimala, NT Rama Rao, Manorama and Sivaji Ganesan, who all at one point (from the 1930s, Sivaji Ganesan’s family still resides there) took up residence there. Today, T Nagar has been transformed into a major shopping district, comprising Ranganathan Street with its wild traffic, Pondy Bazaar with its even wilder shoppers, Usman Road with its glittering gold shops and Panagal Park’s textile showrooms that never lack crowds.

In this part of Chennai, you can easily navigate by the stars. You could go from Sivaji Ganesan’s house on South Boag Road (now renamed after the actor to Chevalier Sivaji Ganesan Road) to Suriya to Simbu’s home. Ganesan’s house is a historic residence bought by the actor’s father 55 years ago which proudly shows off an art deco style facade.

The new crop of actors from Ajith to Dhanush however have expanded their real estate reach to Neelankarai, ECR, CIT Colony, Besant Nagar, in the affluent south.

Rajinikanth and Kamal Haasan, contemporaries and iconoclasts, have always done things differently - the former lives in Poes Garden in Alwarpet (his very famous neighbour was Jayalalithaa) and the latter on Eldams Road near Hotel Samco, also in Alwarpet - an upscale residential locality in central Chennai. Only recently, has Haasan’s modest landmark house been turned into his office with the actor taking up residence in Neelankarai, far away in South Chennai.

Miles to the east lies Nungambakkam - a leafy residential area complete with commercial establishments that makes it quite central to the city. At the intersection of Nungambakkam High Road and Mount Road lies the Gemini (named after the erstwhile Gemini studios that was situated nearby) or the Anna Flyover (as it’s now known) that is a staple in the establishing shots of most Tamil films. Mount Road has given Tamil cinema numerous locations to shoot at: The LIC Building, which has stood the test of time but has now given way to other landmarks. Spencer Plaza, a cult ‘90s favourite (it was a popular landmark back then; Shankar’s Boys featured the mall in the song Enakkoru Girlfriend Venumada), but for 40-something Ajayan Bala, the Film Chamber at Anna Salai (the South Indian Film Chamber of Commerce) is where most of his memories reside, for it’s where he formed many of his scripts.

There was a time when hopefuls used to wait outside directors’ houses (because they couldn’t get into studios easily) to hand them their portfolios, explains Raman, and that there are people who still do - but in offices. “If you go to director Shankar’s office, a bunch of people will be waiting to hand over their photos which will be collected by the AD,” he says.

A lot has changed in as little as 10 years, explains Venkatachalapathy. “The pool of aspirants has become wide - they’re getting increasingly middle class; they’re graduates. Earlier, no one below the age of 35 could become a director, but now you have all these short cuts.” Short films, according to him, are one. Technology, is another, that has brought costs down. “Today, you can make a film with Rs 1 crore,” he says.

Where do the fans - as storied a feature of Tamil cinemas the heroes - appear in the geography of Chennai? Thirty-year-old Aditya* talks about several instances where AR Rahman’s fans have been known to do just about anything to meet him, wait any number of hours to meet him.

But for those who believe in the more direct, less serendipitous approach there is a new method to the madness.

Social media is the key to get into films, says an executive producer, who did not want to be named. “First, these kids go on Facebook and figure out which one of their friends has a common friend with the director they want to work with. Then they start working on the contact. Once they’ve established someone who will put them in touch with the director, they go all out: Send pictures, links to their Facebook page, short film list, portfolio, etc.”

It has to be also said that young upcoming actors these days are richer or slightly well off. Or they are ‘star’ kids or children of producers. So the requirement to go through rigorous steps of being noticed doesn’t quite exist.

Says Baskaran: “There are many film schools today - Rajiv Menon’s LV Prasad Film & TV Academy, Adyar Film Institute - where youngsters enroll and then get contacts.”

Fans are no different: “It used to be that fans would wait to meet stars like MGR or NTR outside their homes only because the shooting was confined to studios or villages. But now, shooting takes place all over the world. Moreover, actors are more than happy to interact with fans on social media. Or they have their various rasigar mandrams (fan clubs), and actors meet fans on their birthdays,” says Raman.

The need to hang out outside directors’ houses is a thing of the past: Kollywood is online, so are the strugglers and the fans. But every neighbourhood of Chennai is marked by cinema.

(Source: HT)

Not just the Malayalam actress rape: These stars too had sickening experiences

A popular Malayalam actor was abducted and molested by a gang of six in Kerala. However, this is not the first instance where an actor has been sexually assaulted. Here are the stars who had faced some horrific experiences.

Shriya Saran:
Actor Shriya Saran was molested by an enthusiastic fan at Tirumala temple. However, the actor did not file any complaint with the police.

Priyamani:
According to reports, a noted celebrity sexually assaulted actor Priyamani at a CCL (Celebrity Cricket League) party back in 2012.

Nagma:
In 2014, actor-turned-politician Nagma was molested by her colleague Congress MLA Gaj Raj Sharma at a rally in Meerut. The incident, which happened in broad daylight, shook the entire nation.

Genelia:
Genelia D'Souza was mobbed by fans when the actor inaugurated a showroom in Vijayawada. Genelia went ahead and slapped one of the fans who reportedly groped the actor in public.

Smitha:
Kannada actor Smitha shared her nightmarish Goa experience with India Today. In November 2015, Smitha was in Gokarna shooting for the Kannada movie Shuddhi, when she decided to take a break in Goa. When Smitha was taking a stroll on the beach at night, a group of boys, high on alcohol,  harassed the actor.

Malayalam actor:
A Malayalam actor was abducted and molested by a gang of six, who reportedly took pictures of the actor to blackmail her. The actor's driver was arrested on the same night, while the other two were arrested in Coimbatore on Sunday (February 19). The accused will be charged under Sections 366 (kidnapping), 376 (rape) of IPC and Section 66 of the IT Act.

Varalaxmi Sarathkumar:
Tamil actor Varalaxmi took to Twitter and shared her horrific experience. Recalling the incident, she said, "I was in a meeting with the programming head of a leading TV channel. Towards the end of the half hour meeting, he asked me, 'So...when can we meet outside?' To which I replied, 'Regarding some other work?'. His reply was (said with a smug smile like it was the norm) 'No no! Not work... for other things.' I hid my shock and anger and told him, 'Sorry! Please leave.' His last word on the topic was, 'So...that's all?'. He smiled and walked away."

(Source: India Today)

'We're told not to speak about it': Varalaxmi Sarathkumar blows the lid off the casting couch

Speaking to TNM, Varalaxhmi said that the casting couch has been a feature since the dawn of time in the industry.

Following the shocking news of abduction and alleged rape of a popular Malayalam actor, several people from the film fraternity have been voicing their concern about women's safety. However, not many have spoken up about the gender disparity and sexual exploitation that is part of the male dominant film industry.

Varalaxmi Sarathkumar, actor and daughter of veteran Sarathkumar, tweeted her unsavoury experience of the casting couch in the industry to blow the lid off the silence.

In her tweet, she spoke about the programming head of a leading TV channel who'd made suggestive comments towards her, insinuating that she'd have to bestow sexual favours on him if he were to continue the work relationship.

Varalaxmi also mentioned how inured people - within the industry and outside of it - are to the casting couch. "Film industry is like this. You knew so when you joined. Why complain nor or act surprised" is their attitude, the actor wrote.

Speaking to The News Minute, Varalaxmi said that she was tired of pushing things under the carpet.

"I was so taken aback when this man asked me that, I didn't know whether to punch him or feel sorry for him that he's not even aware that he can't speak to a woman like this. He said it with such ease and confidence. He didn't flinch or cringe even a little bit," she says.

Varalaxmi adds that if this was the situation for her, someone who comes from a film family with political connections, it struck her how bad things must be for other women in the industry.

Why don't more people speak up against the casting couch though?

"Everybody is ashamed of it," Varlaxmi asserts. "They don't want to admit the things they have to do to get work. And half of them don't have the choices that I or few others have. Things like this are hushed up and we're taught not to talk about it. They say it will tarnish your image. So, when they say all this, no woman is going to come out and tell these stories. You may hear of it happening to a friend's friend's friend but the actual victim never says anything."

Varalaxmi strongly believes that voicing these issues is the way ahead.

"I started this because I want women to know that it's all right to talk about it. They're not the ones who have to be ashamed. It's the other way round," she says.

Is the sexual harassment of female actors something she feels the Nadigar Sangam should take up? Some time ago, an actor called Aditi was allegedly brutalized by her director and even attempted suicide but nothing much happened.

"This has nothing to do with the Nadigar Sangam," says Varalaxmi. "This is about what happens to women all over the country. There are thousands of women who face the exact same thing in thousands of other professions. If not worse. What I'm standing up for is not just for women in this industry but for women everywhere."

Varalaxmi, however, acknowledges the inherent misogyny in the film industry.

"These things have been happening here since the dawn of time," she says. "Whether women do it or men do it, it's all hushed up. We're conditioned not to speak about it. So, you can't try and change what's been happening for 100 years of cinema overnight. That's why people take it so easily...she's a heroine? She's supposed to sleep with you! These people just don't get it. They've been seeing this generation after generation and they don't understand why you can't accept it."

Varalaxmi notes that celebrities may not share these stories because they want to get on with their personal lives and not make these unpleasant experiences come in their way.

Citing the example of director Suraj who made offensive comments about heroines, Varalaxmi says, "Look at the confidence with which he spoke! That is the kind of mindset you have to change and you can't do that overnight."

Despite the uproar around Suraj's comments, there was deafening silence from the male stars of the industry, many of whom have been actively speaking about political issues on social media.

"A few stars do speak up but the rest are all cowards," says Varalaxmi with disarming honesty. "They'd rather be diplomatic. They never like to get their feet wet or their hands dirty."

However, Varalaxmi clarifies that the entire film industry is not like this. "I've worked with some very lovely people who've never made such advances at me. So, you can't generalise the entire industry. It's about how we portray ourselves and what we say yes or no to."

Asked about the film industry's contribution to the objectification of women, Varalaxmi says, "That again has been happening forever. But things are changing. There are actors like Vidya Balan, Priyamani...who do substantial work and are brilliant actors. There are people like me who say no to these things. Change will not happen overnight as I've been saying. It has to start somewhere."

Varalaxmi says that after she tweeted about her experience, several female actors (the A-listers like Trisha, Tamannaah etc are yet to respond) have written to her, thanking her for standing up for all of them.

"I want to do something more about this. I want to study the laws and find out what more can be done. This is just the beginning," she avers.

The class of Kaira, Shyra and Shanaya in Bollywood

In one of the genuinely witty sequences in Ae Dil Hai Mushkil, Ranbir Kapoor meets Aishwarya Rai Bachchan at an airport lounge. “Aur batao aur kya haal chaal hai, kya karti hain aap (So what’s up, what do you do)?”

“Main shayra hoon (I am a poetess),” she says.

“Shayraji, main Ayan hoon (Shayraji, I am Ayan),” he replies.

She giggles and says, “Main shayra hoon, my name is Saba.”

It is a nice touch from the film’s director Karan Johar, a gentle dig at what he perceives to be a certain demographic’s confusion between a common noun (shayra) and a proper noun (Shyra). It was, also, likely a reference to his friend Aditya Chopra’s latest confection Befikre, which released six weeks after his film. Here, Vaani Kapoor plays a girl called Shyra.

Anushka Sharma as Akira in ‘Jab Tak Hai Jaan’

A couple of weeks before Befikre, in Gauri Shinde’s Dear Zindagi, Alia Bhatt was Kaira. She is a cinematographer, she works in Mumbai, has work prospects in New York. Earlier this year, in Shinde’s partner R. Balki’s film Ki & Ka, Kareena Kapoor Khan was Kia. Shraddha Kapoor plays a singer called Jiah in Rock On 2. In Baaghi, which released earlier in the summer, Shraddha Kapoor was Sia, a film actor who bags leading roles. Alia Bhatt was Tia in last summer’s hit family drama Kapoor & Sons (Since 1921). In her debut film, Student Of The Year, Bhatt was called Shanaya, the posh prom queen of her school. Some years ago, Anushka Sharma was Akira in Yash Chopra’s Jab Tak Hai Jaan. Last year, Sonakshi Sinha was the title character in A.R. Murugadoss’ Akira. She plays a college girl who is capable of taking on a squad of able-bodied men single-handedly (Sinha’s Akira is different from Sharma’s Akira though, she was from small-town Jodhpur and wore salwar-kurtas; indeed, she is distinct from this posh cohort in general).

Kaira, Shyra, Akira, Kia, Tia, Sia. Shanaya. These are Bollywood’s cool new names, broadly classified into the “ya” or “ra” nomenclature. The Poojas, Nishas, Anjalis and Nehas of the 1990s are déclassé. These new names carry an unmistakable aspiration to be global.They are unrooted to place, community or any kind of identity except class. They are almost never longer than three syllables and easy to pronounce. They float on coolness and lightness. An ex-colleague memorably christened them “First-World Yoga Names—FWYN”.

There is a nice reference to names in the Bengali film Maach Mishti & More (2013). Actor Soumitra Chatterjee, a chatty grandfatherly type in the movie, is curious about a young girl at a roadside tea stall. “What’s your name?” he asks.

“Sunny,” she replies.

“Bengali?”

“Yaa, you have a problem with that?”

“A bit, yes. I’ve never heard of a Bengali name like Sunny in my lifetime.”

I feel a lot like this. What are these names? Who thinks of them? Why are they so baffling? Be honest: Do you know anyone called Shanaya or Shyra who is above the age of 12? That is, anyone from what can be broadly termed the Indian identity. What happened to the Poojas, Anjalis, Nehas, Nishas, and indeed the more old-fashioned Rajjos, Pushpas, Neenas?

One clue is provided by Johar. In a scene in his debut feature Kuch Kuch Hota Hai, Farida Jalal asks Johnny Lever where the puja room is. “Puja has not shown up for work today,” he replies.

“What? There’s no aarti (prayers) in the mornings?

“Who is Aarti?” he asks.

Shraddha Kapoor as Jiah in ‘Rock On 2’.

Perhaps Johar was implying that this kind of old-fashioned name was already bereft of meaning in his set. That they were just old habits. The girls had to be called something: call them Puja, Nisha, Anjali, et cetera. In his next film, Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham..., he shortened Pooja to Poo. In Student Of The Year, his heroine was called Shanaya. And in Ae Dil Hai Mushkil, a film which can also be read as Johar’s crush on Urdu culture, his heroine is called Alizeh—a name hitherto unheard of in Bollywood and likely to be unfamiliar to most Urdu speakers.

The FWYN appears, at first, to be wholly meaning-free: Who is to say what Sia means or Kia or Kaira or, before Johar told us, Shyra? But they likely claim a global register of meaning—outside the largely Hindi-Hindu and partially Urdu-Islamic axes of Bollywood nomenclature. In fact, these names are almost completely removed from the old markers of place, religion, community. Who can say where Shyra is from, what Shanaya’s mother tongue is, what kind of food they make at Kia’s home?

If you are the bearer of an FWYN, you typically inhabit a glamorous professional identity. Kaira is a cinematographer in Dear Zindagi. Shyra is a tourist guide in Paris in Befikre. Jiah is a singer in Rock On 2. Akira is a documentary film-maker in Jab Tak Hai Jaan. Most of them pursue creative work. The exception is Kia, who is a marketing honcho in Ki & Ka. But it is nevertheless a highly paid, powerful job, something that is nicely captured in the High Heels song. Sometimes these girls do nothing—Tia in Kapoor & Sons or Shanaya in Student Of The Year. Yet, somehow, we picture them doing posh work, work that features cameras or recording equipment or PowerPoint in heavy doses.

What you definitely don’t see them working in are dusty downmarket jobs, like a schoolteacher (Bhumi Pednekar in Dum Laga Ke Haisha) or a clerk (Vidya Balan in Kahaani 2: Durga Rani Singh) or a nurse (Aishwarya Rai Bachchan in Guzaarish) or even a doctor (Kareena Kapoor Khan in Udta Punjab, Rani Mukerji in Saathiya). Indeed, one of the central pleasures of the Kahaani films is this texture of a not-so-shiny universe.

Closely related to professional identity is class; and indeed, the only identity that the FWYN remains connected with is class. When we hear Kaira, or Shyra, or Shanaya, we picture a montage of scenes—working out of Starbucks cafés, taking long-haul flights alone, multilingual flirting, downing shots with friends. We think of elite boarding schools, and foreign degrees. “Baba, do these people only roam around in Paris and New York?” my mother often asks aloud. It makes me laugh out loud, but I can see where her annoyance comes from.

Vaani Kapoor as Shyra in ‘Befikre’.

There have, of course, been posh girls in Bollywood before. Girls who live in houses with sweeping staircases, majestic pianos in chandelier-fitted halls and fathers in dressing gowns. But the names of the posh girls were no different from the names of the subaltern girls. Nargis Dutt was heiress Neena in Andaz and peasant Radha in Mother India. Sharmila Tagore was rich daughter Renu in Waqt and flower-girl Champa in Kashmir Ki Kali. Zeenat Aman was rich babe Sunita in Yaadon Ki Baaraat and secretary Sheetal in Roti Kapada Aur Makaan. Sridevi was the zamindar’s daughter Rekha in Himmatwala and the middle-class girl Chandni in Chandni. The class difference notwithstanding, class was not coded into names. Indeed, if anything, they were too similar—all along the Hindi-Hindu and, partially, the Urdu-Islamic axes (however, the Christian-Western name is largely code for the non-virginal heroine: Waheeda Rehman is Rosie in Guide, Zeenat Aman is Janice in Hare Rama Hare Krishna, Dimple Kapadia is Bobby and Lakshmi Narayan is Julie in the two eponymous films, Deepika Padukone is Veronica in Cocktail).

And, class did not seem to limit their destinies either. The great promise of the Hindi film, the critic Trisha Gupta has written in a 2014 article on Yahoo!, was that love was possible in spite of divides of class. Given that the FWYN is a code for lives lived in Paris, San Francisco, Sydney, of Starbucks, Uber and business-class airport lounges and an entire atlas of neo-liberal affluence, what are the chances of a chance meeting with the plumber or the teacher’s daughter at the local bus stop or the bank around the corner?

The rub is that Bollywood is actually more invested in small-town lives today than it was before (Raanjhanaa, Dum Laga Ke Haisha, the Tanu Weds Manu and Gangs Of Wasseypur films) and in subaltern lives within the big city—Titli, Talaash, Oye Lucky! Lucky Oye!. Yet the possibility of these subaltern lives intersecting with the neo-liberal affluence of the FWYN seems to be becoming increasingly remote. What are the chances that Bhatt’s Kaira would hook up with a receptionist, given that her four beaus in Dear Zindagi are a restaurateur, a film-maker, a singer and a furniture designer? Would Kareena Kapoor Khan’s Kia in Ki & Ka go out on a date with a cook from a local biryani joint?

There’s also a male catalogue for the FWYN—far less exciting and quite limited compared to the women. Essentially, this constitutes three names—Adi, Sid and Kabir. Of these, Kabir has enjoyed the most popularity—everyone from Abhay Deol to John Abraham, Ranbir Kapoor, Ranveer Singh, Imran Khan and Arjun Kapoor has played a Kabir. The Sids, Adis and Kabirs have similarly glamorous work identities—they are photographers (Ranbir Kapoor in several films), artists (Akshaye Khanna in Dil Chahta Hai), musicians (Farhan Akhtar in the Rock On films), criminal masterminds (Abraham in Dhoom, Imran Khan in Kidnap) and house husband (Arjun Kapoor in Ki & Ka). But arguably women are signalers of social identity in a way that men are not. They are bearers of honour, they are markers of modernity (isn’t that what we call families/communities that educate their girls/women?), and when, like the Kairas and Shyras, they inhabit the spaces and freedoms we associate with men, they represent Westernized possibilities of gender equality. Typically, this would be the reality/aspiration of a privileged, well-travelled elite.

Over the past couple of decades, a trend of the Chinese middle and upper-middle class adopting anglicized names has become visible. The British royal family and the names of global celebrities from the anglophone world are popular in the adoption market. At my university in Edinburgh, and during a fellowship in Singapore, I met Angelas, Audreys, Steves, Williams, Dianas and Angies who all had Chinese names on their legal documents. A 2009 essay on Slate notes that this is a phenomenon of Deng Xiaoping’s market reform—as China opened up to business with the world, the class that did this business was tired of having its names mangled by their Western business partners. They chose names that were easy to pronounce in the anglophone world.

Perhaps this business of the FWYN is another form of this impulse—the desire/anxiety to fit in with a globalized world shaped by neo-liberalism. Indeed, Bollywood’s Kairas, Shyras and Shanayas are shaped from their slice of lived reality. For the list of Bollywood star children itself comprises several unusual names—Akira, Shakya, Anya, Diva, Czar, Saira, Viaan, Kiaan, Riaan, Nysa, Renee and Maira. It is significant to point out that the Chinese retain their traditional names and take on an Anglicised name as a second identity. The posh Indian demographic, however, doesn’t do this. They seem happy to change their nomenclature itself.

(Source: Livemint)

Something wrong? Cinemas hardly full, yet Aamir Khan's 'Dangal' earnings skyrocketing!

Dangal box office collections: Aamir Khan is currently grabbing headlines for breaking a new record with each new day since the film’s release. As of Tuesday evening, the film’s earnings reached a staggering Rs 155 crore, knocking MS Dhoni: The Untold Story off from the second spot on the highest grossing films of the year. With such figures, you’d expect theatres to be packed – even on weekdays, since the earnings on both Monday and Tuesday have been over the Rs 20 crore mark. Yet, Sucheta Dalal recently raised the issue of Dangal not seeing the expected occupancy in theatres.

In a tweet today, she posted, “How come this happens with #aamirKhan movies? Cannot be a co-incidence. Last time, half of Regal was empty for PK on Christmas Day colaba.” Her statement came in response to a Dangal viewer’s observations, “@suchetadalal available.Still booked 2 tickets.When entered theater,around 15% seats still empty. Same strategy for promotion like #Pk 2/2.”

At the end of the day, figures/stats can maniplated at will, sans a credible watchdog – there is no stock market-type SEBI to keep people honest. And considering the hundreds of crores and huge reputations at stake, a lot of fixing is always alleged  – it is all a part of the larger Bollywood game in which the industry looks to keep its hierarchy in place. Dangal is not an exception, but we should remember this is all alleged, there are interested parties who want to bring  the high flyers to ground, and no proof is ever presented or even asked for.

It would hardly been the first time a story that made amazing headlines had next to no basis on true facts. And according to the tweet, PK already seems guilty of this. Is Aamir guilty of fudging numbers of his film’s performance at the box office? The idea awes and shocks fans. The performance records also adversely impact the work of all the other filmmakers and actors that come in second, third, fourth and so on to Dangal or for that matter Sultan, or Ae Dil Hai Mushkil. Because for all we know, these films aren’t playing second fiddle to the movie after all. They may well be the real gems of 2016 box office. Maybe.

(Source: The Financial Express)

Why we have to fall in love with Rudra and not Kodi?

One of the most memorable Tamil films we watched this year was ‘Kodi’. It’s memorable because it had a surprise, Trisha, top Tamil heroine, playing a vampire, rather say the villain in it. Even though she plays a negative role, we are left nothing, but to fall in love with her.

There are some of the best aspects to like in the movie when it comes to Trisha’s role. First and foremost, Tamil heroines always do a sexy and glamorous or an innocent next-door girl type of roles. They rarely get to do a character which has its own strong mind and behavior. Most of the times, they are etched as mere caricatures. Their characters are so meekly carved out that all they do in a movie dancing, singing or running behind the hero as his love interest.
   
In ‘Kodi’, Trisha plays the character of Rudra. She is an integral part of the flick, not some curry leaf to be thrown away and finish off the food! She is ambitious, ruthless and manipulative like every other politician we have come across.

Even though she is a villain, she doesn’t wear that gaudy make-up or heavy jewelry or rich silk saris. She dons her character like a simple heroine. Her attires are limited to cotton saris and salwar kameez.

We don’t hate her like how we hate Ramya Krishna who played the role of Neelambari, a symbol of evil, in ‘Padayappa’. When we come to know that she is the villain, then also she doesn’t change her dressing style. She continues her simple heroine-worth attire throughout.

For instance, Jothika who has played a negative role of seducing married men and blackmailing them for money in ‘Pachaikilli Muthucharam’, dons a nose ring from the beginning. She changes her simple looks associated with saris and kurtas to a sexier version when we discover her evil intentions.

Rudra doesn’t use her sexuality to get what she wants. She is in relationship with Kodi, played by Dhanush. She never seduces her man or gets sleazy with him to tell us that she is shameless or a characterless woman.

She is not like Eswari, played by Sriya Reddy, in ‘Thimiru’, who tries to seduce the hero to marry her, or like Arundhati, played by Sangeetha, in ‘Uyir’, who shamelessly tries to seduce her own brother-in-law.

In fact, Rudra is a very strong woman and gets outraged when sexual remarks are passed at her. She’s not the one to keep quiet when Kodi wants her to be merely his wife who can look take care of the family affairs. But that doesn’t mean that she’s shown as some old and undesirable woman. She looks the same throughout, young, simple and fresh with the same smile, with the same piercing eyes.

Unlike other villains, Rudra is courageous to speak the TRUTH. She readily and openly accepts that she is the evil. She doesn’t mince her words to accept the truth. She’s an honest villain, indeed. But that doesn’t mean that the honest evil can survive over the good force.

However, the hero doesn’t put an end to the evil, because it’s in the form of a woman! Is it cowardly to kill a woman? Or is it not manly to kill a woman? The hero can slap his wife or girlfriend or sister or relative or even villain, but he won’t kill her… Slapping and abusing is considered a macho act, but killing is cowardly!

That’s the same thing Rajinikanth aka Padayappa does in the movie. He throws a spear towards Neelambari to protect her, not to kill her. To save the grace of the hero, Neelambari chooses to kill herself.

In ‘Kodi’, the hero doesn’t kill Rudra, even though she’s the killer of his twin brother. He leaves her alive. Surprisingly, it is the hero’s friend who kills her tearfully.

In ‘Kodi’ Saranya, who plays hero’s mom, says that Kodi might have died so that his lover Rudra could get what she aspired for. Kodi’s death is shown as a sacrifice to fulfill the ambitions of Rudra.

Fortunately, this film doesn’t take the usual misogynistic route to establish a woman’s capacity for desire and evil. Wish there was some more info on Rudra’s role. Nothing is shown about her family, why she’s so ruthless and what made her tick till the end…

However, it’s a different feel to watch a woman like Rudra carving her own name and place in her own dreamt career when most of the films have heroines with no ambitions or careers or dreams!