Not too long ago, disturbed by accusations of elitism from friends, family and other trolls, I told myself that, perhaps, it was important to be in touch with the real world. I decided — obviously — I could achieve said goal by watching south Indian films. For what better way to familiarise oneself with unshaven, unbathed men, sundry body fluids, sexual harassment in the name of songs, and all things primeval.
Keeping my fragile mental health in mind, I thought I’d begin my acclimatisation via the Keralites instead of my native Telugu and adopted Tamil brothers. Because, while Malayalam films do regularly feature the prescribed amount of hirsute, son-of-the-soil men drinking copious amounts of alcohol from anything that can hold a liquid, as they walk about hitching their lungis in dense forests with nary a fear of bugs biting them in their unmentionables, you have to admit they do make terrific films from time to time.
And this film had come recommended by a friend whose opinion I trust. But, alas, I was thwarted even before the movie began.
Indian movies, to my mind, are the only ones in the world which begin with a never-ending list of acknowledgements. The rest of the world keeps this section, sensibly, as part of the rolling credits at the end of the film. But Keralites, for some reason, seem to have taken this show of gratitude to a new level. (I knew this, dammit. But had forgotten all about it.)
This particular maker, however, had decided to give this sycophantic gesture an extra double-shot of corn syrup, and choco-nut topping served with mashed gulab jamuns.
The movie began seriously enough: A group of friends, uniformly bearded, all clad in kaily mundus, armed with glasses of rum, squatting in a forest, having an argument which we know is going to lead to violence. So far, so good. I was getting all the required ingredients. A minute into the story, the makers cut to a “Tons of love and hugs to Punnoose Uncle and Mariam Chechi for all their support”.
Okay, I thought. Good for Punnoose Uncle and Mariam Chechi. Perhaps they had mortgaged their tharavad, and helped the producers tide over a cash crunch. Well done, let’s get on with the story now. Five more seconds went by, some crisp dialogue. All good, I was well on my way to becoming feral.
Suddenly: “Tons of love and hugs to Brother Shaji Mohan of Jolly Builders for his support.”
Well, kudos to Jolly Builders. Perhaps, as their name suggested, they had cheered up the makers with a discounted 2BHK offer when they were going through a low phase.
Five more seconds of serious dialogue, the scuffle is coming, I can sense it…
Bam: “Tons of love and hugs to Omana Hot Chips, Kochi, for the chips”…
As these hug-filled love messages followed at five-second intervals, I completely lost track of what the movie was about, wondered where I was, how I was related to my mother, and why I was wearing my wife’s nightie.
When they came to “Tons of love and hugs to Synergy Bank, Kunjumon Colony Branch, for overlooking a few bounced cheques” I switched off the TV, went into the bathroom, and tried to slit my wrists repeatedly with my toothbrush.
Well, wounds somewhat healed, a month or so later, I thought I’d give erasing my elitism another go. I was dead set on proving my critics wrong. And, this time, in my defence, I did make it past the acknowledgements section. But only just.
Unfortunately, though, perhaps because the Mercury in my horoscope was up Uranus, I had decided to try, not one, but two movies, jumping fecklessly from one to the other in quick succession. Each, mind you, a big-ticket movie from Woods Kolly and Tolly.
Managed to watch ten minutes of each. Apparently, the medics came in to revive me later but I have no recollection of it.
In both movies, when the hero appears, the background music and camera angles, the awe of the supporting cast, the wind, the dust, the editing, the sound effects, the props, the producer, the art director, the hero’s own punch dialogue, accompanied by a curated signature move that involved beard scratching combined with co-ordinated crotch adjusting, and above all, the inevitable close shots of his shoes, everybody, everything, except the story or anything the hero actually achieves in those ten minutes, repeatedly told me how great, grand, awesome, fan-worthy and sexually irresistible he was.
When I passed out, I had a vivid dream. It was about the near future. In it, theatres in the Telugu and Tamil states would equip every seat with a nifty probe with a tiny built-in speaker. Its purpose: to invade the audience member’s rear end every time the hero appears, with a voice going ‘He is great, isn’t he? Say he is great. No, actually, confess that he is the best. And there is no one before or after him as great. Admit it now, or we’ll employ the bigger probe.’
I tried, Friends. And failed. I am not cut out for the real world. Permit me to be an anaemic elitist.
