Recently, YouTube came out with a year-end list of videos that India watched the most in 2010. There were no great surprises. The list affirmed what we knew: that Bollywood and cricket still rule the Indian heart and mind. If Live IPL, Tendulkar’s double century, Shakira’s ‘Waka Waka’ and ‘Sheila ki Jawani’ were the most searched phrases, among the most watched were Bollywood hits mostly from the previous year.
YouTube’s list by no means defines what our prime preoccupations were — I mean, no one searches for videos on inflation or moral corruption of the polity, after all. Nevertheless, within its confines, what makes the list and what doesn’t are both significant. The FIFA World Cup finds no high mention apart from Shakira, neither do any of the very special Indian victories and performances at the Commonwealth or the Asian Games. No scandalous sting operations either.
Still, it was a delicious opportunity to see what the masses — the people who make up those staggering numbers — were watching. To see what had drawn the most eyeballs and, perhaps, to understand why. At the very top, something unexpected: a video featuring Australian motivational speaker Nick Vujicic, a man born without limbs. The clip received more than 15 million hits on YouTube India. Clearly a viral, its popularity is not surprising given the inspirational, emotional content. However, what’s heartening is that there is no obvious ‘India’ link here. Insular as we are, if this many viewers watched this brave man speak, it brings hope that we can perhaps be global citizens after all.
But there ends our token interest in affairs outside the ‘des’. At number two, with over 4.5 million views, is the title song from Dil Bole Hadippa that has Shahid Kapoor and Rani Mukherjee keeping boisterous Bhangra beat. I enjoyed this number from 2009’s releases but wouldn’t have put it this high above other musical hits. The film was only a very average grosser, there were other songs that pleased audiences — from Delhi 6, for instance, or Kaminey or even ‘Emosanal Athyachar’ from Dev D… what made Hadippa zoom to the top? A look at the video explains it. It’s simply a wonderful combination of music, fluid choreography and star power: Rani Mukherjee shows off her shapely back and tops that with an amusing Sardar cameo. A look at the region-wise statistics for this video reveals an interesting bit of trivia — the video is most popular, not in India, but neighbouring Pakistan.
The presence of ‘Tere Liye’, a song from the Viveck Oberoi starrer Prince is a bit of a mystery. But note that it is sung by the soulful Atif Aslam, as is that other toplister ‘Tu Jaane Na’ from Ajab Prem ki Ghazab Kahani. Both movies were duds; there is nothing special about the way the songs were picturised. In fact, the top search yields for both songs aren’t even videos so much as montages to acco-mpany the song, so the inevitable conclusion must be drawn: India loves Atif Aslam.
‘Crazy Kiya Re’ is in this list, which is no surprise for Aishwarya Rai was in top form in Dhoom 2. There is also a steamy scene from Kurbaan with Saif Ali Khan and Kareena Kapoor. This one left me cold but, as they say profoundly, whatever…
But the inclusion that startled me most was a song from the 1984 film Andar Baahar with 3.9 million hits. I remembered this movie vaguely. It had Jackie Shroff and Anil Kapoor in it and involved, I think, cops and robbers. It was not a significant hit then and there is no reason why it should suddenly resurface other than that Shemaroo Entertainment uploaded it in February 2009. True, Shroff and Moon Moon Sen are fairly uninhibited in the rain-dance sequence but we have seen better and worse, depending on your point of view. Then, why? A viral spread by subterranean forums perhaps? We shall never know.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Saturday, December 11, 2010
New soaps, more lather
The world of Indian TV soaps is raising a duststorm. Not of controversy this time but the honest dust of frenetic activity.
Soap operas, as studies and common observation will attest, are addictive affairs. It is a large but rather particular audience — usually female though not exclusively so; these are people with the time and mindspace to spare for the concerns of other people, be they ever so fictional. A good soap extends beyond the half hour that is spent in front of the television — a good story fills the crevices between chores, engages the mind and heart when they are not needed elsewhere. Favourite soaps are habits; not to have the next fix when it is habitually due can be disturbing to the rhythm.
I say all this to place in context the consternation of soap-viewing audiences given the ongoing changes in viewing patterns. To begin with, the past few months have seen the closure of a number of old regulars. The biggest wrench of all surely must be Star Plus’s Bidaai. It ran for three years and, while it achieved high TRPs for most of its tenure, it garnered a heart-warming popularity that can’t be measured by numbers alone. On the youth-oriented Star One, two long-running programmes — Dill Mill Gaye and Miley Jab Hum Tum — have been pulled off. Naturally, there have been replacements. Star One has three new shows including Ekta Kapoor’s vampire love story Ye Pyaar Ki Ek Kahaani. Bidaai has given way to the rather interesting and faintly magical Gulaal, which, to my mind, is quite the only one capable of adequately filling the gap its predecessor left behind.
What this means for the soap watcher is that, apart from missing her old staples, suddenly she finds herself in a completely new landscape — milieux that she isn’t too familiar with, several characters she has not invested in, and fresh relationships that don’t yet have an emotional connect.
Then, the industry must needs make alterations as well. A few months ago, Star Plus elongated viewing hours with new shows at 11pm and 11.30pm — late night slots that allow them to be more ‘bold’. Then, to the astonishment of many, a series called Saathiya that airs at the early hour of 7pm stumbled into the top ten.
You could hear the wheels turning. If sufficient numbers were tuning in at seven, could they be persuaded to reach for the remote earlier still? Zee TV is now trying that: two new serials from this week to kick off the evening’s television viewing from 6pm. If the idea takes, it won’t be very long before other channels follow. So, all taken, viewers have a potential six hours of fresh content and that’s without counting afternoon soaps, promiscuous channel-hopping and repeats. What's more, Star One has decided to push the programming envelope in another dimension. Their five soaps will air not five but six days of the week, by co-opting Saturdays into the ‘soap week’.
For our soap watcher, these are hours and slots she wasn’t used to, these are new habits she needs develop if she wishes to scope out her options. These shows aim, not at bringing in fresh audiences, but at reining in the same existing ones. How long before fatigue kicks in? Besides, to what end, if the content isn’t good enough and will only end after short flailing bursts?
Women rule prime time in India — on the screen and in the drawing rooms where they are received. But might this extensive programming threaten that? A family that is resigned to let soaps dominate during prime time will be less inclined to relinquish the remote for marathon sessions, five/six days a week. Will these adjustments serve to increase soap viewing or audiences? More importantly, does this slew of soaps bring anything fresh by way of attitudes or narratives? It is too soon to tell — but whether these strategies sink or swim, they’re working up a fine lather.
Soap operas, as studies and common observation will attest, are addictive affairs. It is a large but rather particular audience — usually female though not exclusively so; these are people with the time and mindspace to spare for the concerns of other people, be they ever so fictional. A good soap extends beyond the half hour that is spent in front of the television — a good story fills the crevices between chores, engages the mind and heart when they are not needed elsewhere. Favourite soaps are habits; not to have the next fix when it is habitually due can be disturbing to the rhythm.
I say all this to place in context the consternation of soap-viewing audiences given the ongoing changes in viewing patterns. To begin with, the past few months have seen the closure of a number of old regulars. The biggest wrench of all surely must be Star Plus’s Bidaai. It ran for three years and, while it achieved high TRPs for most of its tenure, it garnered a heart-warming popularity that can’t be measured by numbers alone. On the youth-oriented Star One, two long-running programmes — Dill Mill Gaye and Miley Jab Hum Tum — have been pulled off. Naturally, there have been replacements. Star One has three new shows including Ekta Kapoor’s vampire love story Ye Pyaar Ki Ek Kahaani. Bidaai has given way to the rather interesting and faintly magical Gulaal, which, to my mind, is quite the only one capable of adequately filling the gap its predecessor left behind.
What this means for the soap watcher is that, apart from missing her old staples, suddenly she finds herself in a completely new landscape — milieux that she isn’t too familiar with, several characters she has not invested in, and fresh relationships that don’t yet have an emotional connect.
Then, the industry must needs make alterations as well. A few months ago, Star Plus elongated viewing hours with new shows at 11pm and 11.30pm — late night slots that allow them to be more ‘bold’. Then, to the astonishment of many, a series called Saathiya that airs at the early hour of 7pm stumbled into the top ten.
You could hear the wheels turning. If sufficient numbers were tuning in at seven, could they be persuaded to reach for the remote earlier still? Zee TV is now trying that: two new serials from this week to kick off the evening’s television viewing from 6pm. If the idea takes, it won’t be very long before other channels follow. So, all taken, viewers have a potential six hours of fresh content and that’s without counting afternoon soaps, promiscuous channel-hopping and repeats. What's more, Star One has decided to push the programming envelope in another dimension. Their five soaps will air not five but six days of the week, by co-opting Saturdays into the ‘soap week’.
For our soap watcher, these are hours and slots she wasn’t used to, these are new habits she needs develop if she wishes to scope out her options. These shows aim, not at bringing in fresh audiences, but at reining in the same existing ones. How long before fatigue kicks in? Besides, to what end, if the content isn’t good enough and will only end after short flailing bursts?
Women rule prime time in India — on the screen and in the drawing rooms where they are received. But might this extensive programming threaten that? A family that is resigned to let soaps dominate during prime time will be less inclined to relinquish the remote for marathon sessions, five/six days a week. Will these adjustments serve to increase soap viewing or audiences? More importantly, does this slew of soaps bring anything fresh by way of attitudes or narratives? It is too soon to tell — but whether these strategies sink or swim, they’re working up a fine lather.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
So many bugs
If you were a visiting Martian, belonging moreover to an obscure, insular tribe, who was somehow deposited in front of a television screen in India, what do you suppose you would make of this country's predominant preoccupations — going by its advertising images?
Within a couple of days you would be convinced that Earth was infested by these rabid, lethal creatures known as ‘keetanu’. You would note with trepidation that these lurk everywhere on the human person — in their teeth, on their skin, clothes and everything they touch. By and by you would realise that these are impossible to destroy, but you would understand also that this was one entity Earthlings must combat at all costs, or die. If you were a suggestible sort of Martian, you would soon find yourself avoiding contact with anything — doorknobs, newspapers, currency notes — for fear that you too could die from such deadly infection. You would have growing regard for a range of products: soap, toothpaste, deodorant, and a range of domestic cleaning liquid. You would see again and again the image of a magnifying glass that would show you precisely how well these products were working: a circle full of germs magically wiped clean leaving only one or two insignificant crawlies, one perhaps skulking so close to the edge as to appear practically invisible.
I, of course, am an Earthling. As children, we held these ‘keetanu’ in contempt. During a growing up phase when I fancied myself particularly hardy, I remember telling my sister that the best way to deal with a bleeding scraped knee was to rub a little mud on it to stem the flow. She did, and she lives, I assure you, to tell the tale to any sympathetic audience likely to cast dark looks at her heartless older sister. But the point is: Indians didn’t use to be this afraid of germs and bacteria. We knew that resistance was superior to non-contamination. That bacteria aren’t vile creatures that need to be warded off with vats of antiseptic. We learnt that the human body is an assemblage of microbiota in numbers that outstrip human cells ten times over. And this, we must now remind ourselves, is normal. Normal.
A few years ago, during the annual year-end NRI season, we had a few kids over. They went out to explore the garden and the adults sat down to conversation — only to have the kids rush in again in a flurry of alarm and disgust. Eeeks and ewwws were uttered and we heard complaints of “so many bugs”. An investigation revealed ants, grasshoppers and other innocuous fauna. First-world kids! We shook our heads then, but is the attitude so different from ours now? By and large, this fear of old-fashioned dirt has percolated to us. Children even two decades ago roamed more than they do now, played more robustly than they tend to do today. Parents are more protective — leashes are tighter and yes, there’s a keener eye kept on fingernails. Do children these days still collect ladybugs in matchboxes or examine frogs?
And all these arguments against the contaminants of the world would all be a little more sympathy inducing if the concern were motivated by pure love. A parent’s job is by necessity prone to anxiety and mothers are notoriously easy to guilt-trip. But you have to think — because soon after an advertisement has told you your child could fall ill if he didn’t wash his hands obsessively, it’ll usually let drop a more deadly fear: perhaps he will have to miss school. Oh the horror! Fall behind on lessons, slip down the ranks and be less of a success in standard four? Unthinkable. And so it comes about that your average mother is stepping out this minute to stock up on antiseptics, handwashes and bacteria-repelling toothpastes. While she’s at it, she should pick up a consignment of energy drinks that aid memory, keep up energy for school, athletics, violin lessons as well as keep the lad peppy through the extra tuition.
Within a couple of days you would be convinced that Earth was infested by these rabid, lethal creatures known as ‘keetanu’. You would note with trepidation that these lurk everywhere on the human person — in their teeth, on their skin, clothes and everything they touch. By and by you would realise that these are impossible to destroy, but you would understand also that this was one entity Earthlings must combat at all costs, or die. If you were a suggestible sort of Martian, you would soon find yourself avoiding contact with anything — doorknobs, newspapers, currency notes — for fear that you too could die from such deadly infection. You would have growing regard for a range of products: soap, toothpaste, deodorant, and a range of domestic cleaning liquid. You would see again and again the image of a magnifying glass that would show you precisely how well these products were working: a circle full of germs magically wiped clean leaving only one or two insignificant crawlies, one perhaps skulking so close to the edge as to appear practically invisible.
I, of course, am an Earthling. As children, we held these ‘keetanu’ in contempt. During a growing up phase when I fancied myself particularly hardy, I remember telling my sister that the best way to deal with a bleeding scraped knee was to rub a little mud on it to stem the flow. She did, and she lives, I assure you, to tell the tale to any sympathetic audience likely to cast dark looks at her heartless older sister. But the point is: Indians didn’t use to be this afraid of germs and bacteria. We knew that resistance was superior to non-contamination. That bacteria aren’t vile creatures that need to be warded off with vats of antiseptic. We learnt that the human body is an assemblage of microbiota in numbers that outstrip human cells ten times over. And this, we must now remind ourselves, is normal. Normal.
A few years ago, during the annual year-end NRI season, we had a few kids over. They went out to explore the garden and the adults sat down to conversation — only to have the kids rush in again in a flurry of alarm and disgust. Eeeks and ewwws were uttered and we heard complaints of “so many bugs”. An investigation revealed ants, grasshoppers and other innocuous fauna. First-world kids! We shook our heads then, but is the attitude so different from ours now? By and large, this fear of old-fashioned dirt has percolated to us. Children even two decades ago roamed more than they do now, played more robustly than they tend to do today. Parents are more protective — leashes are tighter and yes, there’s a keener eye kept on fingernails. Do children these days still collect ladybugs in matchboxes or examine frogs?
And all these arguments against the contaminants of the world would all be a little more sympathy inducing if the concern were motivated by pure love. A parent’s job is by necessity prone to anxiety and mothers are notoriously easy to guilt-trip. But you have to think — because soon after an advertisement has told you your child could fall ill if he didn’t wash his hands obsessively, it’ll usually let drop a more deadly fear: perhaps he will have to miss school. Oh the horror! Fall behind on lessons, slip down the ranks and be less of a success in standard four? Unthinkable. And so it comes about that your average mother is stepping out this minute to stock up on antiseptics, handwashes and bacteria-repelling toothpastes. While she’s at it, she should pick up a consignment of energy drinks that aid memory, keep up energy for school, athletics, violin lessons as well as keep the lad peppy through the extra tuition.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
No more the small screen
About to embark on Kaun Banega Crorepati (4), Amitabh Bachchan recently reminisced on his blog about how it was back in 2000. When he first decided to do television, those in charge of guarding his brand were highly doubtful. For a man who ruled the silver screen to be cramped into small box screens, to lose mystique and be delivered straight into distracted drawing rooms was seen as a dilution of his persona.
But Bachchan persisted — it was an honourable way to begin to pay off the pile of debts he had incurred in the debacle that was ABCL. To the participants who came hoping to win a tidy sum of money, this was even more of a connect with the man who sat opposite them; he too was there to make money — a necessity and a preoccupation that binds all of poor and middle class India. So when Amitabh Bachchan asks someone on the hot seat: “Kya maayne rakhtein hai ye paise aapke liye? What does this money mean to you?”, the query is significant. It adds to that mental profile we Indians assemble for everyone we meet. It is a question that everyone is sympathetic to; and the answer, no matter how similar, is invariably of interest.
Bachchan’s return to television ten years later sees a vastly different picture. Bollywood wouldn’t touch TV with a pole then, but they love it now. It is impossible to flip channels on primetime weekends without shuffling on star dust. Akshay Kumar is a sure shot these days, and Aishwarya Rai Bachchan smiled graciously on Masterchef last week even as she fenced gingerly with Karan Johar. In recent years, Bachchan Jr, Shah Rukh Khan, Akshay Kumar, Karan Johar, Farah Khan, Priyanka Chopra have all hosted television shows, and everyone in Bollywood worth anything at all has trooped through television studios. A fact that tells us, better than reams of statistics ever could, how powerful the small box has become.
Talk shows are one aspect, but there is the other tiresome matter of promotions. Singing contests, comedy, dance and sundry talent contests... nothing is spared from the relentless onslaught of new movie releases. Stars, directors and associated celebrities appear on these platforms. For the talent show, it presumably keeps the interest alive; for the movie, it is an easy audience, captive, gagged and bound. Win-win, as they say.
The biggest victims of this parade of self-serving guests, to my mind, are the judges of musical contests. Over the years, these have been notorious for attention-seeking gimmicks, manufactured conflicts... generally behaviour known in TV circles as ‘khaaoing’ footage. For example: a contestant performs well. Instead of a measured critique, he or she is more likely to encounter a judge who leaps out of his chair, bounds up on stage to bestow hugs, blessings and fulsome praise, all under the red eye of the camera. Camerapersons have learnt the hard way not to compose judges in tight frames, for they are apt to rear up without notice, leaving the vision mixer with disconcerting visuals of their midriffs if everyone isn’t sharp enough.
Now this scenario has become rather compromised by the Bollywood publicity machine. Hardly a week goes by without some promotion, and our judges must now suffer to play host to a series of celebs even more intent on consuming valuable air-time. For the viewer, of course, this is extremely fatiguing; quality music has long vanished and it is just one dose of insincere hype after the other.
But promotions aren’t limited to reality TV — they sometimes spill over into soaps as well. Salman Khan as Chulbul Pandey was woven (very, very badly!) into the script of Laagi Tujhse Lagan and Akshay Kumar dropped into the home of the Kashyaps of Sasural Genda Phool to sell Khatta Meetha. Much as we acknowledge the compulsions of the business, this is distressing. At least the soaps — television at its purest — may be spared the Bollywood infestation.
But Bachchan persisted — it was an honourable way to begin to pay off the pile of debts he had incurred in the debacle that was ABCL. To the participants who came hoping to win a tidy sum of money, this was even more of a connect with the man who sat opposite them; he too was there to make money — a necessity and a preoccupation that binds all of poor and middle class India. So when Amitabh Bachchan asks someone on the hot seat: “Kya maayne rakhtein hai ye paise aapke liye? What does this money mean to you?”, the query is significant. It adds to that mental profile we Indians assemble for everyone we meet. It is a question that everyone is sympathetic to; and the answer, no matter how similar, is invariably of interest.
Bachchan’s return to television ten years later sees a vastly different picture. Bollywood wouldn’t touch TV with a pole then, but they love it now. It is impossible to flip channels on primetime weekends without shuffling on star dust. Akshay Kumar is a sure shot these days, and Aishwarya Rai Bachchan smiled graciously on Masterchef last week even as she fenced gingerly with Karan Johar. In recent years, Bachchan Jr, Shah Rukh Khan, Akshay Kumar, Karan Johar, Farah Khan, Priyanka Chopra have all hosted television shows, and everyone in Bollywood worth anything at all has trooped through television studios. A fact that tells us, better than reams of statistics ever could, how powerful the small box has become.
Talk shows are one aspect, but there is the other tiresome matter of promotions. Singing contests, comedy, dance and sundry talent contests... nothing is spared from the relentless onslaught of new movie releases. Stars, directors and associated celebrities appear on these platforms. For the talent show, it presumably keeps the interest alive; for the movie, it is an easy audience, captive, gagged and bound. Win-win, as they say.
The biggest victims of this parade of self-serving guests, to my mind, are the judges of musical contests. Over the years, these have been notorious for attention-seeking gimmicks, manufactured conflicts... generally behaviour known in TV circles as ‘khaaoing’ footage. For example: a contestant performs well. Instead of a measured critique, he or she is more likely to encounter a judge who leaps out of his chair, bounds up on stage to bestow hugs, blessings and fulsome praise, all under the red eye of the camera. Camerapersons have learnt the hard way not to compose judges in tight frames, for they are apt to rear up without notice, leaving the vision mixer with disconcerting visuals of their midriffs if everyone isn’t sharp enough.
Now this scenario has become rather compromised by the Bollywood publicity machine. Hardly a week goes by without some promotion, and our judges must now suffer to play host to a series of celebs even more intent on consuming valuable air-time. For the viewer, of course, this is extremely fatiguing; quality music has long vanished and it is just one dose of insincere hype after the other.
But promotions aren’t limited to reality TV — they sometimes spill over into soaps as well. Salman Khan as Chulbul Pandey was woven (very, very badly!) into the script of Laagi Tujhse Lagan and Akshay Kumar dropped into the home of the Kashyaps of Sasural Genda Phool to sell Khatta Meetha. Much as we acknowledge the compulsions of the business, this is distressing. At least the soaps — television at its purest — may be spared the Bollywood infestation.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Rakhi-O!
Rakhi Sawant burst onto most people’s horizons with the kiss that the infamous Mika planted on her. It was the most shocking thing to take place that week and she got her due minutes of fame and airtime. It was all par for the course, which doesn’t explain what she is doing — four years later — hosting her own show called Rakhi ka Insaaf on Imagine TV. The television and film industry has legions of publicity seekers who seek small bursts of visibility and sink thereafter, which makes Rakhi Sawant’s longevity, her continued popularity and her success something of an astonishing oddity.
This latest show has been likened by quite a few reviewers to a fish market. It is a very understandable comparison. Two episodes old at the time of going to print, Rakhi ka Insaaf is a reality justice show with a very twisted shake. Disputes are brought for Rakhi to hear and judge and the disputants (so far) all represent the lowest common denominator. Rakhi, of course, conducts affairs with all the aplomb of a ring master. She is expansive, flinging out a hand to silence the audience, out-yelling her participants, reacting to every revelation with the requisite drama and finally issuing her take on the matter.
But to dwell on the rise of Rakhi Sawant: she has managed to straddle Bollywood as well as television — even if as a fringe item girl in the movies and as a Reality TV specialist on television. Since 2006, she has appeared in numerous shows; two of these bear her name in their titles and ride on her shoulders alone. The truth is that this woman — either by means of native shrewdness, luck or some mysterious factor — has managed to become a brand. What exactly is her appeal?
Her days incarcerated in Bigg Boss (1) gave us a few clues. She was clearly disadvantaged as far as her background went, but she was by turns heartbreakingly humble, ambitious in the most open, grasping way, curiously sincere and laughably manipulative. Her vulnerability came through and so did her love of the limelight. She demonstrated fine comic timing, she was naive. If she launched herself into the middle of an emotional drama with herself cast as queen, her eyes would flicker mid-scene to gauge its effect on her audience. Very few people fell for anything she said, but many were charmed. She had something that can’t be bought in tinsel town: personality.
I’ve found her tiresome on many occasions but one of the instances where she thoroughly delighted me was on the talk show with Karan Johar. Many thought it was a huge coup for Rakhi that she was asked on the show at all. For, throughout the previous season, Johar had taken low potshots at a few persons; they included Mallika Sherawat, Neha Dhupia and Rakhi Sawant. Now the film industry, such as it is, is bound to have a few young women who become embroiled, out of desperation or bad judgment, in something approaching sleaze. It is even more likely if the young woman comes to the industry without the aegis of a big name. For Karan Johar, with his background, success and position, to attack these particular women with such snide relish was ungenerous and ungentlemanly. Still the talk-show producers had bowed to the public’s dubious but thumping interest in Rakhi Sawant and she was invited to Koffee with Karan. She came. If Johar had hoped to expose her further, he succeeded. But he could not discomfit her — for Rakhi out-Rakhied herself.
She came in a cloud of effusive gratitude, took the wind out of his sail by admitting blithely to cosmetic surgery, cried so copiously Johar was left wiping his own nose in involuntary mimicry, she dived dramatically at his feet in a surprise move that had her host yelping in startlement and leaping nimbly out of reach. As a revenge, it was delicious. And she’s still having the last laugh.
This latest show has been likened by quite a few reviewers to a fish market. It is a very understandable comparison. Two episodes old at the time of going to print, Rakhi ka Insaaf is a reality justice show with a very twisted shake. Disputes are brought for Rakhi to hear and judge and the disputants (so far) all represent the lowest common denominator. Rakhi, of course, conducts affairs with all the aplomb of a ring master. She is expansive, flinging out a hand to silence the audience, out-yelling her participants, reacting to every revelation with the requisite drama and finally issuing her take on the matter.
But to dwell on the rise of Rakhi Sawant: she has managed to straddle Bollywood as well as television — even if as a fringe item girl in the movies and as a Reality TV specialist on television. Since 2006, she has appeared in numerous shows; two of these bear her name in their titles and ride on her shoulders alone. The truth is that this woman — either by means of native shrewdness, luck or some mysterious factor — has managed to become a brand. What exactly is her appeal?
Her days incarcerated in Bigg Boss (1) gave us a few clues. She was clearly disadvantaged as far as her background went, but she was by turns heartbreakingly humble, ambitious in the most open, grasping way, curiously sincere and laughably manipulative. Her vulnerability came through and so did her love of the limelight. She demonstrated fine comic timing, she was naive. If she launched herself into the middle of an emotional drama with herself cast as queen, her eyes would flicker mid-scene to gauge its effect on her audience. Very few people fell for anything she said, but many were charmed. She had something that can’t be bought in tinsel town: personality.
I’ve found her tiresome on many occasions but one of the instances where she thoroughly delighted me was on the talk show with Karan Johar. Many thought it was a huge coup for Rakhi that she was asked on the show at all. For, throughout the previous season, Johar had taken low potshots at a few persons; they included Mallika Sherawat, Neha Dhupia and Rakhi Sawant. Now the film industry, such as it is, is bound to have a few young women who become embroiled, out of desperation or bad judgment, in something approaching sleaze. It is even more likely if the young woman comes to the industry without the aegis of a big name. For Karan Johar, with his background, success and position, to attack these particular women with such snide relish was ungenerous and ungentlemanly. Still the talk-show producers had bowed to the public’s dubious but thumping interest in Rakhi Sawant and she was invited to Koffee with Karan. She came. If Johar had hoped to expose her further, he succeeded. But he could not discomfit her — for Rakhi out-Rakhied herself.
She came in a cloud of effusive gratitude, took the wind out of his sail by admitting blithely to cosmetic surgery, cried so copiously Johar was left wiping his own nose in involuntary mimicry, she dived dramatically at his feet in a surprise move that had her host yelping in startlement and leaping nimbly out of reach. As a revenge, it was delicious. And she’s still having the last laugh.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Move over, sarson ke khet
I remember distinctly the time I had to ask someone what Daler Mehndi and Amitabh Bachchan meant when they sang, Sadde naal rahoge te.... There had been such a glut of Punjabi in the filmi and pop music market in the ’90s, I had needed translation for what is now mainstream lingo. As a context-less South Indian, I remember faintly resenting the easy dominance of the Punjab over our national tastes — permeation so complete and insolent, it didn’t need to come with subtitles.
It wasn’t only the music, it was also the images. The sarson ke khet, for instance, were so badly flogged, they should be sore still. Even before Aditya Chopra set Shah Rukh Khan in the middle of the obligatory mustard crop with a mandolin, the yellow fields were something of a symbol. Since then, the landscape — though distorted, candified, glossified — has formed the rural backdrop of choice in our collective cinematic consciousness.
Punjab, however, is conceding space to another milieu. And nothing confirms it like Dabangg: Uttar Pradesh is the new Punjab. Or, to be more precise, eastern UP — the badlands with ubiquitous country pistols, violent university politics; young men roaming the gallis and dusty trails, involved in a complex hierarchy of power — a matrix both dynamic and unchanging. The land of the bhaiyya and the bahubali, where societal structures of power are so strong, the law retreats in wary watchfulness.
Tigmanshu Dhulia tried it in 2003 with his low-key Haasil. A love story set in an atmosphere of seething university politics, it didn’t make box-office waves, but it is something of a cult among those who saw it. Then came the great Vishal Bharadwaj. His Omkara and Ishqiya dripped with the essence of the land, replete with its bawdy, charismatic expressions, its unique flavour. Then, cherry on top, there is Dabangg. Even the name is reflective of attitudes there — not merely power, not just dominance, the word includes a sense of psychological hold over a dominion.
But movies have only a couple of hours to impress our minds. For a detailed, leisurely taste of this culture, you must go to television. To Star Plus’ reigning soap, Pratigya. It is set in Allahabad, and deals most interestingly with power, chauvinism and ideas of respectability. Frequent invocations to Alopi maiyya (a goddess obscure to all but these parts), and sprinkled mentions of Illahabadi localities add considerable texture. With soaps relying so heavily on dialogue, the robust dialect used plays no small part in the success of this series. But even more steeped in the world of eastern UP is Imagine TV’s new soap Gunahon ka Devta. This is, for once, a hero-centric show, supposedly inspired by UP’s famous gangster Shri Prakash Shukla. Hero Avdesh Singh is the ‘ruler’ of Lallanpur, running and directing illegal commerce, influencing authorities, dispensing rough-and-ready justice. The locales are fresh, there is spontaneous outburst of song to the accompaniment of beat and harmonium; the tone is determinedly earthy, sometimes so coarse as to burn the ears of more sheltered citified folk.
This movement to UP could be because of the influx of immense talent from the heartland — Dhulia, Bharadwaj, Abhishek Chaubey, the brothers Anurag and Abhinav Kashyap are all from the cow belt. Not all their movies are set in their home state but the most evocative of them seem to be. It is no coincidence in television either; Pratigya and Gunahon ka Devta share the same writer, Shanti Bhushan, who comes from there as well.
Or, perhaps it’s simply Uttar Pradesh’s time in the sun, ka kehte ho?
It wasn’t only the music, it was also the images. The sarson ke khet, for instance, were so badly flogged, they should be sore still. Even before Aditya Chopra set Shah Rukh Khan in the middle of the obligatory mustard crop with a mandolin, the yellow fields were something of a symbol. Since then, the landscape — though distorted, candified, glossified — has formed the rural backdrop of choice in our collective cinematic consciousness.
Punjab, however, is conceding space to another milieu. And nothing confirms it like Dabangg: Uttar Pradesh is the new Punjab. Or, to be more precise, eastern UP — the badlands with ubiquitous country pistols, violent university politics; young men roaming the gallis and dusty trails, involved in a complex hierarchy of power — a matrix both dynamic and unchanging. The land of the bhaiyya and the bahubali, where societal structures of power are so strong, the law retreats in wary watchfulness.
Tigmanshu Dhulia tried it in 2003 with his low-key Haasil. A love story set in an atmosphere of seething university politics, it didn’t make box-office waves, but it is something of a cult among those who saw it. Then came the great Vishal Bharadwaj. His Omkara and Ishqiya dripped with the essence of the land, replete with its bawdy, charismatic expressions, its unique flavour. Then, cherry on top, there is Dabangg. Even the name is reflective of attitudes there — not merely power, not just dominance, the word includes a sense of psychological hold over a dominion.
But movies have only a couple of hours to impress our minds. For a detailed, leisurely taste of this culture, you must go to television. To Star Plus’ reigning soap, Pratigya. It is set in Allahabad, and deals most interestingly with power, chauvinism and ideas of respectability. Frequent invocations to Alopi maiyya (a goddess obscure to all but these parts), and sprinkled mentions of Illahabadi localities add considerable texture. With soaps relying so heavily on dialogue, the robust dialect used plays no small part in the success of this series. But even more steeped in the world of eastern UP is Imagine TV’s new soap Gunahon ka Devta. This is, for once, a hero-centric show, supposedly inspired by UP’s famous gangster Shri Prakash Shukla. Hero Avdesh Singh is the ‘ruler’ of Lallanpur, running and directing illegal commerce, influencing authorities, dispensing rough-and-ready justice. The locales are fresh, there is spontaneous outburst of song to the accompaniment of beat and harmonium; the tone is determinedly earthy, sometimes so coarse as to burn the ears of more sheltered citified folk.
This movement to UP could be because of the influx of immense talent from the heartland — Dhulia, Bharadwaj, Abhishek Chaubey, the brothers Anurag and Abhinav Kashyap are all from the cow belt. Not all their movies are set in their home state but the most evocative of them seem to be. It is no coincidence in television either; Pratigya and Gunahon ka Devta share the same writer, Shanti Bhushan, who comes from there as well.
Or, perhaps it’s simply Uttar Pradesh’s time in the sun, ka kehte ho?
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Yours faithfully
Of all India’s traits, there cannot be one more fascinating than its tendency to harness everything to serve the interests of religion. Technology is pounced upon with alacrity, gadgets are pressed into the service of gods and faith — there are e-prayer packages, live darshans streaming into millions of households through rudimentary surveillance cameras, and temple trusts manage fairly complex transactions over the Internet.
All the technological advances of recent years have not, as we might have imagined two decades ago, pushed our faith into the background. If anything, there has been even more of an upsurge. Bhakti and faith channels abound; they may be relegated to the end of viewing lists but they have their own devoted following that won’t permit cable operators to skimp on the bouquet.
But must this spill over into mainstream television? “Aa rahe hain Shani Dev!” booms the anchor in varying pitches and tenor, and then goes on to interview a severe-looking astrologer, who tells us in exacting detail how this difficult god must be appeased. This, in case you didn’t know, was on a news channel.
Hand in hand with fresh blasts of religious messages, we are also witnessing the ascendency of superstition, or more accurately, the superstition market as carved out by teleshopping networks such as GTM Teleshopping. But these are hilarious, and my particular favourites are the advertisements for the ‘nazar suraksha kavach’. There are many ‘docu-dramas’ that you could stumble upon but the essence is this: our protagonists enjoy some success till someone in their circle of family or friends casts an ‘evil eye’ — the envious eye that Indians so dread — on their good fortune. This is usually depicted by two red rays emanating from their eyes and reaching our unsuspecting hero or heroine. Misfortunes pile up, alas, and the trend is traced to its insidious root. A ‘nazar suraksha kavach’ is duly ordered and natural order is restored. The next time, the red lines make a beeline for our man or woman, a blue shield circle rises to counter the infection, demolishing them on impact. This ghastly looking pendant with a beady eye can be yours, for the modest sum of Rs 2,325!
Star One has recently brought their non-fiction series Mano Ya Na Mano back for a second season. This comes after a gap of three to four years — the first season was tooled around by the persuasive Irrfan Khan and this one is anchored by Mishal Raheja. Mano Ya Na Mano deals with paranormal occurrences, bringing some inexplicable incident to the fore. In fact, I was rather intrigued by the choice of subjects the second series has picked to highlight — the necro-cannibalistic Aghoris of North India, Bhoota Aradhana in Tulu Nadu, the shrine of Bullet Devta in Rajasthan. These are all extreme forms of religion found in limited pockets, fascinating subjects of study that would have made, given the right treatment, highly absorbing episodes. William Dalrymple — that celebrated observer of Indian spirituality — has, in fact, examined the curious case of the motorcycle shrine in his recent book Nine Lives. But the series wastes the opportunity and falls short of accomplishing anything halfway decent. The tone is sensational, the re-enactments embarrassing in their melodrama and the production quality poor. The idea here is not to bring up interesting aspects but to confound and befuddle the audience, which they must think comprises entirely of open-mouthed yokels.
There is more paranormal/new age material to come — NDTV Imagine is coming back soon with its new season of Raaz Pichle Janam Ka. This delves into the past lives of participants with the help of regression therapy and has a juicy list of celebrities lined up. I was absorbed by the first season and can hardly wait for the second.
All the technological advances of recent years have not, as we might have imagined two decades ago, pushed our faith into the background. If anything, there has been even more of an upsurge. Bhakti and faith channels abound; they may be relegated to the end of viewing lists but they have their own devoted following that won’t permit cable operators to skimp on the bouquet.
But must this spill over into mainstream television? “Aa rahe hain Shani Dev!” booms the anchor in varying pitches and tenor, and then goes on to interview a severe-looking astrologer, who tells us in exacting detail how this difficult god must be appeased. This, in case you didn’t know, was on a news channel.
Hand in hand with fresh blasts of religious messages, we are also witnessing the ascendency of superstition, or more accurately, the superstition market as carved out by teleshopping networks such as GTM Teleshopping. But these are hilarious, and my particular favourites are the advertisements for the ‘nazar suraksha kavach’. There are many ‘docu-dramas’ that you could stumble upon but the essence is this: our protagonists enjoy some success till someone in their circle of family or friends casts an ‘evil eye’ — the envious eye that Indians so dread — on their good fortune. This is usually depicted by two red rays emanating from their eyes and reaching our unsuspecting hero or heroine. Misfortunes pile up, alas, and the trend is traced to its insidious root. A ‘nazar suraksha kavach’ is duly ordered and natural order is restored. The next time, the red lines make a beeline for our man or woman, a blue shield circle rises to counter the infection, demolishing them on impact. This ghastly looking pendant with a beady eye can be yours, for the modest sum of Rs 2,325!
Star One has recently brought their non-fiction series Mano Ya Na Mano back for a second season. This comes after a gap of three to four years — the first season was tooled around by the persuasive Irrfan Khan and this one is anchored by Mishal Raheja. Mano Ya Na Mano deals with paranormal occurrences, bringing some inexplicable incident to the fore. In fact, I was rather intrigued by the choice of subjects the second series has picked to highlight — the necro-cannibalistic Aghoris of North India, Bhoota Aradhana in Tulu Nadu, the shrine of Bullet Devta in Rajasthan. These are all extreme forms of religion found in limited pockets, fascinating subjects of study that would have made, given the right treatment, highly absorbing episodes. William Dalrymple — that celebrated observer of Indian spirituality — has, in fact, examined the curious case of the motorcycle shrine in his recent book Nine Lives. But the series wastes the opportunity and falls short of accomplishing anything halfway decent. The tone is sensational, the re-enactments embarrassing in their melodrama and the production quality poor. The idea here is not to bring up interesting aspects but to confound and befuddle the audience, which they must think comprises entirely of open-mouthed yokels.
There is more paranormal/new age material to come — NDTV Imagine is coming back soon with its new season of Raaz Pichle Janam Ka. This delves into the past lives of participants with the help of regression therapy and has a juicy list of celebrities lined up. I was absorbed by the first season and can hardly wait for the second.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Ah, the female gaze
I caught a small report the other day on Saas, Bahu... something or the other, one of several behind-the-scenes programmes that keep television audiences acutely apprised of the absolute latest on the saas-bahu soaps and other popular television. The reporters were laughing, albeit with warm sympathy, at the plight of actor Karan Tacker, the lead star of Star One’s Rang Badalti Odhani. In the eternal search for higher TRPs, Tacker was being filmed singing and dancing in a towel — a straight rip-off from Ranbir Kapoor’s caper in Saawariya. The actor was bashful, not least because the producers had shrewdly, if inconsiderately, invited a phalanx of television and other reporters to the shoot. The well muscled Tacker, who has stripped before for television, although never quite so comprehensively, was apparently told that the channel’s ratings tended to shoot up whenever he dropped his clothes.
It has been coming on for a while now, the female equivalent of the ‘male gaze’. After centuries of believing that it was how rich or powerful they were that mattered, men are now being forced to pay attention to one area of their lives they had not considered significant: their appearance. We’ve seen evidence of this in films all this decade. The hirsute Anil Kapoors of the 1980s and 1990s, the portly Govindas have been nudged aside by the beefy John Abrahams. It used to be cabaret girls that pulled in crowds; now it’s the leading men. On the list of requirements are muscles that are well acquainted with gym equipment, chests that are duly defuzzed, eyebrows that are metrosexually tamed. Tick them off: John Abraham, Ranbir Kapoor, Hrithik Roshan, Saif Ali Khan... right down to the Trinity of Ageing Khans — they’re all preparing their bodies to be looked at. Lingering admiringly over her man’s bare torso, Aishwarya Rai as Jodha Bai spoke eloquently for a whole new generation of women.
But all this catering to the female gaze spills now into the ambit of home-grown television — programming that has always been governed by a careful modesty. Oh, the idea of TV heartthrobs isn’t new, not at all. In fact, it’s a fact well-documented that, in soaps, in a direct reversal of the way matters are in cinema, women are the heroes and the men are sex symbols. But that used to be a covert, or at least a covered affair. A few years ago, if Mr Bajaj or Jai Walia (both of whom amassed legions of female fans) allured women, it was with the protective layers of three-piece suits.
But not any more. Television’s heroes, too, are getting leaner, fitter and sexier. The medium can’t afford to embarrass its mixed family audiences but the hints have been there —unbuttoned shirts, an occasional singlet and progressively bolder embraces. We seem to have broken an invisible barrier, however, for there has been a lineup of beefcake of late: Mishal Raheja (who plays Dutta Bhau in Colors’ Laagi Tujhse Lagan), Karan Singh Grover and Arjun Bijlani (both leads in soaps on Star One) have all taken tantalising showers recently; and the delectable Gurmeet Choudhary (on Star One’s Geet Hui Sabse Parayee) regularly indulges in fancy Tai Chi and kick boxing to introspect on his growing feelings for Geet — bare-chested, of course.
What is telling is that most of these instances are from series that cater to younger audiences. The bulk of soaps in India are targeted at older audiences and they still define the TV industry. But teens and twenty-somethings are emerging as a distinct group — cut from perhaps the same cloth as their fangirl counterparts in the UK or USA who are likely to want (and to acquire) a strip of Robert Pattinson’s shirt as a keepsake. They’re not shy about demanding eye candy, and it looks like they’re going to get it.
It has been coming on for a while now, the female equivalent of the ‘male gaze’. After centuries of believing that it was how rich or powerful they were that mattered, men are now being forced to pay attention to one area of their lives they had not considered significant: their appearance. We’ve seen evidence of this in films all this decade. The hirsute Anil Kapoors of the 1980s and 1990s, the portly Govindas have been nudged aside by the beefy John Abrahams. It used to be cabaret girls that pulled in crowds; now it’s the leading men. On the list of requirements are muscles that are well acquainted with gym equipment, chests that are duly defuzzed, eyebrows that are metrosexually tamed. Tick them off: John Abraham, Ranbir Kapoor, Hrithik Roshan, Saif Ali Khan... right down to the Trinity of Ageing Khans — they’re all preparing their bodies to be looked at. Lingering admiringly over her man’s bare torso, Aishwarya Rai as Jodha Bai spoke eloquently for a whole new generation of women.
But all this catering to the female gaze spills now into the ambit of home-grown television — programming that has always been governed by a careful modesty. Oh, the idea of TV heartthrobs isn’t new, not at all. In fact, it’s a fact well-documented that, in soaps, in a direct reversal of the way matters are in cinema, women are the heroes and the men are sex symbols. But that used to be a covert, or at least a covered affair. A few years ago, if Mr Bajaj or Jai Walia (both of whom amassed legions of female fans) allured women, it was with the protective layers of three-piece suits.
But not any more. Television’s heroes, too, are getting leaner, fitter and sexier. The medium can’t afford to embarrass its mixed family audiences but the hints have been there —unbuttoned shirts, an occasional singlet and progressively bolder embraces. We seem to have broken an invisible barrier, however, for there has been a lineup of beefcake of late: Mishal Raheja (who plays Dutta Bhau in Colors’ Laagi Tujhse Lagan), Karan Singh Grover and Arjun Bijlani (both leads in soaps on Star One) have all taken tantalising showers recently; and the delectable Gurmeet Choudhary (on Star One’s Geet Hui Sabse Parayee) regularly indulges in fancy Tai Chi and kick boxing to introspect on his growing feelings for Geet — bare-chested, of course.
What is telling is that most of these instances are from series that cater to younger audiences. The bulk of soaps in India are targeted at older audiences and they still define the TV industry. But teens and twenty-somethings are emerging as a distinct group — cut from perhaps the same cloth as their fangirl counterparts in the UK or USA who are likely to want (and to acquire) a strip of Robert Pattinson’s shirt as a keepsake. They’re not shy about demanding eye candy, and it looks like they’re going to get it.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Saas, Bahu aur Asar
Media analyst Sevanti Ninan writes a significant piece in The Hindu (4 April 2010) this Sunday. A very interesting article in which she discusses Indian television serials, what comes across as regressive content and the unexpected, unforeseen effect it seems to have had on women exposed to them.
Ninan quotes Prime Time Soap Operas on Indian Television by Shoma Munshi, which in turn partly bases its conclusions on research by Robert Jensen and Emily Oster on the effects of cable television in rural areas of India. Taken together, the argument is that Indian soaps are actually empowering women, that "regression" depends on the point of view. In her piece Ninan wonders at the results and the very convoluted route to empowerment.
The whole story is up here at The Hindu and here on The Hoot.
I responded to the article and the link is here at The Hoot.
And here, for my record, is all of it.
====
A response to 'Is this empowerment?'
I found myself laughing a little over Sevanti Ninan's bewilderment in the piece (Is this empowerment?) reprinted from The Hindu. As someone who bestrides what seems to be a chasm, I am tempted to respond. I am a modern woman - I am intelligent, I have a media degree, I'm a mediaperson (of sorts), I'm feminist (I like to paint in my own shades but the broad umbrella will do). Also I watch serials avidly - it started because I like the TV on and I prefer glittery clothes to the news. But lately, because it fascinates me.
As the writer says, there is a world of difference in perception. The casual disinterested viewer - or more particularly, the casual, contemptuous journalist/activist - is appalled at the goings-on in serials; the regular viewer cannot be persuaded to move her eyes from the screen enough to feed her squalling children. For a very long time now, media-watchers and analysts have berated the average viewer for her tastes, shuddered and averted their eyes from the gaudy colours, the campy vamps and the bizarre plotlines, and tried rather desperately to uplift everyone's frame of mind.
They have not succeeded. The serials have gone on being made and, more importantly, they have gone on been consumed. If Balaji Telefilms is no longer the market leader, it doesn't matter any more. They have handed on the torch of that particular stamp of television - it has grown many more heads.
Why these serials thrive is an interesting question. The easy, lazy answer is that these hordes of nameless women across the country (and in neighbouring Pakistan) are fools. That they don't know any better. That they could be watching... oh, I don't know what but certainly something more educative.
However, I don't think that is true. I think our middle class is peopled with sensitive, intelligent, attentive women capable of nuanced thinking - I have several TV fanatics myself among my family and friends; I even adore a large number of them. In which case, we must go by Holmes: when you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. We must consider that women are gaining something from this; that they are not merely swallowing whole every broad stroke of apparent regressiveness; that they are entertained; that they are sifting, sorting and picking nuggets that fit in with their current social constructs - and even moving ahead in desirable directions with whatever subtle manoeuvres are available to them. That in spite of the disastrous-seeming package it comes in, Indian TV serials MUST be doing something right.
I was delighted to learn from this article that even so far back as 2001-2003 - the very initial years of the saas-bahu sub-genre - the serials had such a positive impact. It also bears out my own persistent feeling that there is a great deal of difference between what appears to be the message and what is actually absorbed - because there is no other way to explain why they fascinate this huge mass of audience, why they have continually done so this entire decade.
Is it merely that these serials engage in women's concerns? Kitchen politics, in the broad scheme of things, may be insignificant. But perhaps to the woman trapped in it, it helps to have someone examine her situation? TV serials, after all, are not primarily for the outgoing modern woman with various exciting options for her evening's entertainment. They are watched (we assume) by women who have just finished their household chores; the woman who comes, at the end of the day, to her place in front of the television, where the rest of family resignedly relinquishes the remote. Even that, to my mind, is no small victory. It is understood across Indian households now that primetime television is the woman's right - in spite of scoffing malefolk in the background, she is entitled to watch her serials; moreover it is understood, by and large, that she is not to be disturbed as she does it.
Coming now in particular to Pratigya, which Ninan quotes. I'm not arguing for a minute that the plotline isn't utterly shocking, or that there is something right about marrying a harasser. But to see the “power of women”, or the charm of “Pratigya character”, the devil is in the details.
It is a piquant situation. There are two families that are contrasted here: Pratigya's refined, educated family with its genteel manners, and Krishna's rowdy, coarse, wealthy but unlettered folk, as ready with their fists as they are with abuses. Pratigya, for Krishna, is the aspiratonal goal. He wants her, he has got her. Now he needs her approval, he needs to measure up to her and is doing everything possible to please her, to be worthy of her. Through her eyes he now sees his family. A household in which his mother is kicked and punched the minute she steps out of line, where the older bahu is slapped down fairly regularly. I imagine it would curl quite a few stomachs (it did mine) to hear the maid servant inform her mistress with coy triumph that the bahu has already been ‘worshipped' for the day - she means the daily beating, of course. It is appalling. But as a study of how women buy into and participate in the suppression of their own kind, it shows a mirror.
I understand the writer's horror at Krishna's popularity. The context, however, is that he comes of such stock. He has a brother against whom he is measured - the brother (Shakti) is completely a product of his background, while Krishna questions it. Shakti buys into the male hegemony; Krishna is willing to see other sources of power. Krishna is ordered, pressured, mocked into abandoning his support of his wife on the grounds that such devotion makes him very unmanly - he has (so far) resisted attempts with commendable firmness.
Krishna's own (very crude) sister is now married into Pratigya's mild family - their unkindness is of a rather different kind. They sniff at her, they ignore her, they will have no truck with her - curiously, for someone used to being hurled abuses at and pushed around, she still finds their reception of her unbearably hostile. Her abrasive manner only thinly masks her hurt at the rejection. The families are deadlocked in a rather interesting situation, for each has a daughter hostage in the enemy camp.
The social milieu in Pratigya and recent developments in the show throw up a few note-worthy points:
I've been rather long winded about this - but the point, I suppose, is that these serials do occasionally shine the light on what exists; and that depiction doesn't always amount to ratification. Unfortunately, there has been a rather dismissive attitude to popular culture - as if low-brow material must necessarily lack sensibility. To draw a small lesson from Bollywood, not all the cinema and literary work before it managed to make homosexuality as acceptable to middle-class India as Dostana (2008) did. The movie took the idea, wrapped it up affectionately and placed it before the masses, who, to their credit, considered it and accepted it. It was a gentle transaction.
The stories streaming into our drawing rooms may not preach in an ‘acceptable' way. It is possible that they just show, allowing for people see themselves, recognise themselves and wherever possible, identify with this or the other character? They do this to the accompaniment of high melodrama. The saas-bahu genre is now heavily stylised, with its own vocabulary, make-up (what are the bindis and hair-dos but equivalents of the white hat/black hat or Kathakali costumes for positive and negative stereotypes), and a distinct style of editing involving many white flashes.
In spite of the presentation, merely the fact that television serials deal with a long line of female protagonists is encouraging. The female life is being rather thoroughly examined - the child bride, the new bride, the wife, the mistress, the mother, the businesswoman, the ruler, the matriarch. Not even Bollywood has paid us that compliment.
______
Cross-posted from Of Shoes--and Ships--and Sealing-Wax
TV soaps with bizarre, regressive storylines pay scant respect to notions of women's empowerment. Yet, they seem wildly popular and, according to some studies, empowering too. Are these script writers more in touch with reality than literal-minded activists and journalists?she asks.
Ninan quotes Prime Time Soap Operas on Indian Television by Shoma Munshi, which in turn partly bases its conclusions on research by Robert Jensen and Emily Oster on the effects of cable television in rural areas of India. Taken together, the argument is that Indian soaps are actually empowering women, that "regression" depends on the point of view. In her piece Ninan wonders at the results and the very convoluted route to empowerment.
The whole story is up here at The Hindu and here on The Hoot.
I responded to the article and the link is here at The Hoot.
And here, for my record, is all of it.
====
A response to 'Is this empowerment?'
I found myself laughing a little over Sevanti Ninan's bewilderment in the piece (Is this empowerment?) reprinted from The Hindu. As someone who bestrides what seems to be a chasm, I am tempted to respond. I am a modern woman - I am intelligent, I have a media degree, I'm a mediaperson (of sorts), I'm feminist (I like to paint in my own shades but the broad umbrella will do). Also I watch serials avidly - it started because I like the TV on and I prefer glittery clothes to the news. But lately, because it fascinates me.
As the writer says, there is a world of difference in perception. The casual disinterested viewer - or more particularly, the casual, contemptuous journalist/activist - is appalled at the goings-on in serials; the regular viewer cannot be persuaded to move her eyes from the screen enough to feed her squalling children. For a very long time now, media-watchers and analysts have berated the average viewer for her tastes, shuddered and averted their eyes from the gaudy colours, the campy vamps and the bizarre plotlines, and tried rather desperately to uplift everyone's frame of mind.
They have not succeeded. The serials have gone on being made and, more importantly, they have gone on been consumed. If Balaji Telefilms is no longer the market leader, it doesn't matter any more. They have handed on the torch of that particular stamp of television - it has grown many more heads.
Why these serials thrive is an interesting question. The easy, lazy answer is that these hordes of nameless women across the country (and in neighbouring Pakistan) are fools. That they don't know any better. That they could be watching... oh, I don't know what but certainly something more educative.
However, I don't think that is true. I think our middle class is peopled with sensitive, intelligent, attentive women capable of nuanced thinking - I have several TV fanatics myself among my family and friends; I even adore a large number of them. In which case, we must go by Holmes: when you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. We must consider that women are gaining something from this; that they are not merely swallowing whole every broad stroke of apparent regressiveness; that they are entertained; that they are sifting, sorting and picking nuggets that fit in with their current social constructs - and even moving ahead in desirable directions with whatever subtle manoeuvres are available to them. That in spite of the disastrous-seeming package it comes in, Indian TV serials MUST be doing something right.
I was delighted to learn from this article that even so far back as 2001-2003 - the very initial years of the saas-bahu sub-genre - the serials had such a positive impact. It also bears out my own persistent feeling that there is a great deal of difference between what appears to be the message and what is actually absorbed - because there is no other way to explain why they fascinate this huge mass of audience, why they have continually done so this entire decade.
Is it merely that these serials engage in women's concerns? Kitchen politics, in the broad scheme of things, may be insignificant. But perhaps to the woman trapped in it, it helps to have someone examine her situation? TV serials, after all, are not primarily for the outgoing modern woman with various exciting options for her evening's entertainment. They are watched (we assume) by women who have just finished their household chores; the woman who comes, at the end of the day, to her place in front of the television, where the rest of family resignedly relinquishes the remote. Even that, to my mind, is no small victory. It is understood across Indian households now that primetime television is the woman's right - in spite of scoffing malefolk in the background, she is entitled to watch her serials; moreover it is understood, by and large, that she is not to be disturbed as she does it.
Coming now in particular to Pratigya, which Ninan quotes. I'm not arguing for a minute that the plotline isn't utterly shocking, or that there is something right about marrying a harasser. But to see the “power of women”, or the charm of “Pratigya character”, the devil is in the details.
It is a piquant situation. There are two families that are contrasted here: Pratigya's refined, educated family with its genteel manners, and Krishna's rowdy, coarse, wealthy but unlettered folk, as ready with their fists as they are with abuses. Pratigya, for Krishna, is the aspiratonal goal. He wants her, he has got her. Now he needs her approval, he needs to measure up to her and is doing everything possible to please her, to be worthy of her. Through her eyes he now sees his family. A household in which his mother is kicked and punched the minute she steps out of line, where the older bahu is slapped down fairly regularly. I imagine it would curl quite a few stomachs (it did mine) to hear the maid servant inform her mistress with coy triumph that the bahu has already been ‘worshipped' for the day - she means the daily beating, of course. It is appalling. But as a study of how women buy into and participate in the suppression of their own kind, it shows a mirror.
I understand the writer's horror at Krishna's popularity. The context, however, is that he comes of such stock. He has a brother against whom he is measured - the brother (Shakti) is completely a product of his background, while Krishna questions it. Shakti buys into the male hegemony; Krishna is willing to see other sources of power. Krishna is ordered, pressured, mocked into abandoning his support of his wife on the grounds that such devotion makes him very unmanly - he has (so far) resisted attempts with commendable firmness.
Krishna's own (very crude) sister is now married into Pratigya's mild family - their unkindness is of a rather different kind. They sniff at her, they ignore her, they will have no truck with her - curiously, for someone used to being hurled abuses at and pushed around, she still finds their reception of her unbearably hostile. Her abrasive manner only thinly masks her hurt at the rejection. The families are deadlocked in a rather interesting situation, for each has a daughter hostage in the enemy camp.
The social milieu in Pratigya and recent developments in the show throw up a few note-worthy points:
- Neither family wants to continue to stay in the situation it finds itself in. Most of the characters would rather retrieve their girl and break relations (the situation is being held in place by Krishna, who still desperately wants a good marriage with Pratigya and hopes to bring her around.) Marriage, apparently, is no longer a lifelong commitment. Interestingly, neither family makes any concerned noises at all about their daughter's future, should such a break happen. It makes a contrast from even a decade ago when we were told repeatedly that once a woman's ‘doli' had entered a portal, only her ‘arthi' could leave it.
- The Thakur family, in spite of its violent habits, does not actually have the stereotyped silent, suppressed women. They talk back, they argue, they fight. When they are abused, they exhibit no very great weakness - if it is an indignity, they do not permit it to touch them deeply. They brush it off, get up again and contrive to have their voices heard.
- Only last week, Pratigya refused to have her name changed in her sasural; refused to have her identity taken away and be demeaned by having another name foisted on her.
- Krishna's mother hates her daughter in law Pratigya because her son backs her to the hilt. It is a hate born of deep envy. It brings home to her the inadequacies of her own life, a glimpse what she might have had, viz., a husband who respects her.
- Pratigya's father has now managed to negotiate for his daughter an environment that contains books. The Thakur family is feeling backfooted because they cannot read, while their bahu can.
I've been rather long winded about this - but the point, I suppose, is that these serials do occasionally shine the light on what exists; and that depiction doesn't always amount to ratification. Unfortunately, there has been a rather dismissive attitude to popular culture - as if low-brow material must necessarily lack sensibility. To draw a small lesson from Bollywood, not all the cinema and literary work before it managed to make homosexuality as acceptable to middle-class India as Dostana (2008) did. The movie took the idea, wrapped it up affectionately and placed it before the masses, who, to their credit, considered it and accepted it. It was a gentle transaction.
The stories streaming into our drawing rooms may not preach in an ‘acceptable' way. It is possible that they just show, allowing for people see themselves, recognise themselves and wherever possible, identify with this or the other character? They do this to the accompaniment of high melodrama. The saas-bahu genre is now heavily stylised, with its own vocabulary, make-up (what are the bindis and hair-dos but equivalents of the white hat/black hat or Kathakali costumes for positive and negative stereotypes), and a distinct style of editing involving many white flashes.
In spite of the presentation, merely the fact that television serials deal with a long line of female protagonists is encouraging. The female life is being rather thoroughly examined - the child bride, the new bride, the wife, the mistress, the mother, the businesswoman, the ruler, the matriarch. Not even Bollywood has paid us that compliment.
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Cross-posted from Of Shoes--and Ships--and Sealing-Wax
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