How Art Treats Princess Diana

The new film Diana  is, at times, bathetic, intermittently moving, certainly torrid, vivid and subversive. It is based on the book Last Love by Kate Snell, (2001).  Even if half true, the story  is extraordinary and yet now only hazily remembered, if at all. A few weeks before the princess died, she had, once again, been disappointed by a man.  Hasnat Khan, a skilful heart surgeon, was, apparently the love of her life. Khan loved her deeply too, but knew the relationship was doomed.  He was Pakistani, a dedicated doctor and a private man. She had no private life. It ended in tears and she threw herself into the waiting arms of Dodi Fayed. Then came the crash and she was no more.

From a miserable childhood, she had gone into to a bad arranged marriage with a charmless and faithless Prince and given him children- two boys!. Then she was cast adrift. When lost and finding her new self,  she came across and fell for Khan. Millions around the world were bewitched by her. She was vulnerable and manipulative, had beauty and charisma, her own sorrows and intuitive compassion for war and other victims.  Fans and foes all have an imagined princess in their heads. Can art ever imitate such a life? Those who try are hampered by their own limitations or the hostility that flares up when Diana is their chosen subject. Unsurprisingly the movie has been slated and so too German director Oliver Hirschbiegel, seen as an interloper.

Another barrier is the social context- the prevailing values and perceptions. After Diana’s death, Britons were less moon-eyed about the monarchy. Using PR the Royals have deleted the unhappy princess from  their narrative and the nation forgot her. The monarchs are back on top and all’s well with their world. Stephen Frears’ The Queen was a hit because it chimed with the monarchist mood. Anyone upsetting the restored order is asking for trouble.

Diana does that by reminding audiences of how cruel the Royals were to the princess, how they only let her see her boys every five weeks, how desolate and lonely she often was. Naomi Watts conveys that isolation beautifully and Diana’s vivacity and rebelliousness too.

Several inviteees at the pre-release screening were noisily derisive, tittering and guffawing, especially during the love and sex scenes. Some of the lines and delivery are indeed embarrassingly bad  and Naveen Andrews, who plays Khan is too stiff and unappealing, but there are moments too when the actors are so tender and intimate, the camera so close to them, you feel you are intruding.  They laughed when Andrews quoted lines from the soulful, old poet Rumi, when Watts watched him operate on a patient, when she went off to Pakistan to try to win over his extended family and so on and on. I wondered then whether the laughs were expressing unconscious disquiet. Was it too much for some to watch Diana being touched and fucked by a ‘Paki’ or obviously at ease with his family in Lahore? I only ask the question which, thus far, has been avoided by film experts.

This is the tenth docudrama on Princess Diana. Catherine Oxenburg, distantly related to the royals who played her in 1982 and Nicola Formby, Diana in The Women of Windsor in 1992 had goodish reviews. But modern audiences have the bacilli of cynicism in their guts. Filmic romantic tragedies evoked high emotions in earlier decades. Not any more, unless they are consciously nostalgic and go back to war-torn lovers or damaged past celebs such as Marilyn Monroe.

But what about other art forms? Is Diana served better by novels, say? Not so far. Monica Ali’s Untold Story , in which an implausible Diana survives the crash and ends up in a crashingly boring American suburb was a terrible disappointment. The fine writer could have given us the interior life of a complex heroine but didn’t, perhaps couldn’t. Except for a couple of self published books there has been no fictional exploration of the most alluring woman in the 20th century. ( Imagine a contemporary La Liaison Dangerous) . No high poetry either, not even by feminists.

Our wordsmiths either don’t care to or don’t dare.

Visual representations are plentiful, most traditional, boring portraits and busts.  Some arty photographers did catch Diana’s spirit. Mario Testino’s wonderful pictures show her happy and flirty, unbound, and are more alive than any painting.  Individuals artists and sculptors have sometimes been inspired to produce works of depth .  One is Toronto artist Yuri Firstov whose bronze sculpture has her in a tiara and ball gown, a lifeless woman, playing a role.  There is now a bronze monument in Harrods too- lifesized Diana and Dodi, dancing while an  albatross hovers above them. Commissioned by Al-Fayyad, it is a symbol of the private loss of a father which he wants the public to witness. TO HERE These are exceptions floating in conspicuous invisibility.

Popular culture has been either trite or indifferent. Elton John wrote Candle in the Wind for Marilyn and sang it at Diana’s funeral, but no songs have been created for the betrayed, heartbroken Princess. Museums and fashion designers flaunt her dresses, as if that is what she was. The Diana memorial in Althorp is closing down; the watery memorial in Hyde Park is amusing for children but almost intentionally dull. Only the Princess of Wales Orchid House in Kew seems to reflect Diana’s rare beauty and nature.

But for me, the artistic tribute that was truly worthy of Diana was that forest of perfumed and bright flowers and simple notes laid in front of Kensington Palace, expressing true and unmediated grief. I went there- in spite of my republicanism- to be with this profusion of people, men and women, black and white. Nothing since has ever matched the power of that spontaneous shrine. The flowers didn’t last, nor did she. The last scene in Diana, has Khan putting down flowers and the Rumi couplet. I wept all over again.

The Independent on Sunday, Arts, 20th September 2013

A Hundred Years of Indian Cinema

 

The Indian film industry is the biggest and loudest on the planet. Eight hundred films are produced every year for domestic audiences of a billion plus and a burgeoning overseas market. Though regional and independent films have always done their own thing and brilliantly,  the most prodigious sector is ‘Bollywood’, the ultimate dream factory in Mumbai. Burhan Wazir, director of the Doha Film Institute finds the films formulaic, featuring ‘gym fit actors, exotic locations, rampantly consumerist lifestyles.’ True, but it is such a winning formula that glitzy Bollywood is now outshining Hollywood- no mean feat, when one considers how American cultural hegemony has dominated and disabled the European film industries.

Beautiful megastars Shahrukh Khan and Aishwarya Rai appear on the covers of Forbes and Time magazine and are considered more famous than Tom Cruise or Julia Roberts. Michael Ellis of the Motion Pictures Association admits that US studios have not penetrated the Indian market. Until 2008, American cinemas did not screen Hindi movies. Now they do, big time. In LA, dance studios teach Bollywood dancing to wannabe starlets while Columbia, Disney, Fox et al seek out co-production deals with Bollywood. Hitherto narcissistic Hollywood was oblivious to its eastern counterpart. Now it is sprinting to catch up with the rest of the world. Bollywood patriarch and superstar Amitabh Bachchan is jubilant that they who ignored or ridiculed his industry are eating humble ( American) pie: ‘We always knew and believed in our films. The uniqueness of Hindi cinema has been its content…It has survived almost a hundred years and is still growing [so] it must be doing something right’.

So what is the secret of this success? According to buoyant director, Karan Johar, it is: ‘ a mixture of music, love, family values, comedy, fantasy…adventurous choice of film location.’ Discerning audiences know that films are not real life, but allegories which give hope because  good triumphs over evil, poetic justice prevails.  Expert Nasreen Munni Kabir, curator of Channel4’s annual season of Hindi movies, writes: ‘…they are unquestionably the most-seen movies in the world… [watched] well beyond Indian continent and the Diaspora, in such unlikely places as Russia, China, the Middle East, the Far East, Turkey and Africa. People from very different cultural and social worlds have a great love for Indian popular cinema, and many have been Hindi film fans for over fifty years’. Mao Tse Tung was a fan as were millions of others in communist countries. Bollywood was a globalized phenomenon long before our age of globalisation.

It all started exactly a hundred years ago when D. J. Phalke, a nerdy-looking, bespectacled Indian Brahmin made the first ever Indian feature film, Raja Harish Chandra, about a noble king guided by Hindu Gods, some frolicsome, some deadly and full of wrath. In 1895, the French Lumiere brothers had created the first motion pictures and by 1911, moving images had been shown in Mumbai venues, created a buzz and palpable anticipation.  A vast audience was prepped for this new medium, its possibilities and magic, and Phalke’s first big filmic adventure.

He became king of the silent era, producing dozens of mythological films with actors gesticulating wildly, backed by some live music and crude sound effects. The filmmaker was populist and subversive, a storyteller with messianic resolve.

Let us go back to India in 1912. The British Raj was full of pomp and hubris and natives were getting restive. Two years later Gandhi would launch his liberation movement. Phalke had studied art and architecture, tried printing, photography, archaeology and various other ventures. And then, in Mumbai, he watched a French Film, The Life of Christ and was gripped: ‘… by a strange spell. I bought another ticket and saw the film again. Could we, the sons of India, ever, able to see Indian images on the screen?’ He had found his calling. He would put those images on screen to awaken Indian nationalism. Ironically  Phalke knew he couldn’t fulfil his mission without western technology and British expertise. He travelled to Europe, met directors, bought a Williamson camera,  and in  London, was trained by the English director Cecil Hepworth in his Walton-on-Thames studios. Creative Indian and European filmmakers then were mutually respectful collaborators who circumvented political partition, defied colonial and societal strictures.

Phalke thrilled audiences and subliminally aroused his compatriots to resist unjust power and inequality. Other silent films chose their own targets. As early as 1921, England Returned, mocked pretentious, Anglicised Indians. (Goodness Gracious Me picked on similar characters in their hit BBC TV series in the 1990s.) Risqué and sexually daring films seemed to herald new personal freedoms. One of the boldest was Shiraz (1928), about ill fated, royal lovers, directed by  Frantz Osten, a German. The producer and leading actor was the Indian trailblazer, Himansu Rai. It was shown in Germany and England to great acclaim.

Fearing films could incite dissidence and high emotion, colonial administrators  imposed strict censorship. Any character wearing the loin cloth was deemed dangerous because it was Gandhi’s chosen attire, so too any expression of patriotism. To beat the bans anti-British messages were embedded in song lyrics. Post-imperial India kept the scissors and state censorship. The Brits cut seditious messages; Indian controllers expurgate  ‘licentiousness’- kisses and bedroom antics. So smart directors use dance and suggestive dialogue to make highly charged, erotic films. Just don’t tell the censors.

Gorgeous Devika Rani, an Indian actress trained at RADA, met Rai in London in 1928, married him and starred in his films. One of these, Karma (1929), was in English, shot in a London studio and premiered in Leicester Square. Rani received rave reviews, but the film bombed and the couple moved back home. Three years later the sound era arrived with Alam Ara, a historical musical made by Ardeshir Irani. Rai and Rani, the hot and ambitious  couple, set up Bombay Talkies. One of its early hits was Achchut Kanya, about untouchables, starring Rani and directed by Osten, who made 19 films in India. He then joined the Nazi party. Inexplicable.

Lalit Mohan Joshi founded the South Asian Cinema Foundation in London.  Born in India, he used to bunk off school and sneak into cinemas, like the boy in Cinema Paradiso. He tells me that in the thirties and forties, common themes were female rights, hypocritical social mores  and caste prejudice, always done beautifully through compelling stories and acting. Idealistic and artistic directors won prizes at Cannes and Venice. They used the popular art form to create unity in a multilingual, disparate, often conflicted nation. Muslims were key players and astonishingly, Jewish and Christian actresses- some European- were employed by the studios- usually to play led-lipped vamps. The influence of cinema in India, says Joshi, is  immeasurable: ‘It has more of an impact than books, art and even religion.’

Adulated stars join the limitless pantheon of Hindu deities. When Bachchan was seriously injured while filming in 1982, millions stopped work, fasted and prayed. PM Indira Gandhi cancelled a foreign trip to go to his bedside. Shahrukh, Aamir and Salman Khan  (unrelated)are today’s top male idols. All three are of Muslim heritage and immensely powerful. Aamir created and hosts a TV programme which confronts unjust and corrupt practices in public and domestic life. Six hundred million people watch the show which terrifies and chastens the powerful and rich. Several Bollywood luminaries have gone into politics. Only in India. Would Hugh Grant or Helen Mirren ever stand for election?

The golden age of Hindi cinema was, arguably, from the fifties to the mid sixties. And again, British technical expertise was enlisted by some celebrated Indian producers. Among the actors who emerged then were Prithviraj Kapoor and his sons Raj, Shami and Shashi, also Dev Anand, Dilip Kumar among others Raj Kapoor, also a director, replicated Chaplin’s hapless characters in memorable films. The Kapoor acting dynasty is still going strong in Bollywood. Wonderful actresses like Nargis, and Waheeda Rehman  (both Muslims),  Meena Kumari and Geeta Bali were not always good, obedient Asian women. They were rule breakers, some mistresses and hard drinkers in real life, all defiant and free on screen. Nargis wore revealing ballgowns and short tennis skirts and played feisty characters; In the remarkable film Guide (1965) Rehman, a dancer, was stuck with an archaeologist husband much like Casaubon in Middlemarch. A sexy tourist guide came along and the heroine went  off with him. That, though, didn’t end her deep unhappiness. In her most famous film Pakeezah, Meena Kumari played a dignified courtesan exposing society’s duplicities.

Moral concerns were depicted with such feeling that they stayed with you, within you. The Oscar shortlisted Mother India ( 1957) was about tough, maternal love and the unwinnable fight for peasant land rights. The usually glam Nargis played the heroine. That powerful drama  seeded my socialist principles. In 1960, another immortal masterpiece was released- Mughal-e-Azam, about a Mughal prince and a dancing girl, an epic tussle between love and duty. My English husband has watched it five times.

From the late sixties, Bollywood changed, perhaps forever. Flamboyant films arrived, with ridiculous storylines, foreign locations, lovers running around trees and gyrating women breaking into song and dance for no good reason. And bad jokes. Movies such as An Evening in Paris and Love in Tokyo were cringe-making but box office hits. Then in the seventies, came the Indian Rambo, ballsy Bachchan, playing volcanic young men and breaking all box office records. The actor seemed to channel the people’s anger under the authoritarian PM Indira Gandhi.

Through the good and bad times, India’s independent sector has produced internationally lauded films with low budgets. Satyajit Ray, of course, and Shyam Benegal, Aparna Sen ( an actress too, who starred in Ray’s films),  Mrinal Sen and others have made classics without Bollywood’s razzmatazz. Benegal’s Ankur starred the subtle and versatile actress, Shabana Azmi, who played an adulterous wife. It is among my top ten films. Modern director Onir, famous for his touching films on homosexuality and other taboo subjects has compared Bollywood to a shopping mall, mindless, lifestyle and regressive. He is part of a confident new wave which is making its mark at home and internationally. As are Diasporic Indian filmmakers like Mira Nair ( Salaam Bombay, Monsoon Wedding and The Reluctant Fundamentalist ) and Deepa Mehta, director of Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children.

For post-war Asian migrants to the UK, Hindi movies were cheap entertainment and gave them solace, an identity as they coped with racism and dreadful weather. Multitalented Meera Syal remembers going to Hindi films at Wolverhampton picturehouses with her family: ‘This was the only time and place we saw an art form that was ours. People dressed up and it was as exciting as it must have been for Elizabethan audiences going to the theatre. It was a window into a country I didn’t really know, a living link. And I felt proud. To see people who looked like us acting and dancing was amazing. Remember TV here then had no place for us. The films also had good messages- about families being sacred.’

Gurinder Chadha, renowned director of Bend it Like Beckham and Bride and Prejudice, was brought up in Southall and went on Sundays with her family to the temple, then a Bollywood film followed by samosas and sweets at a local cafe: ‘the singing and dancing, big musical numbers, bright colours, big emotions!’ She too admires early Hindi films because they had social commentary and defiant messages, all dressed up with songs and music: ‘A lot of it was about installing pride and unity in this new, freshly independent nation. They were trying to define who they were.’ The kitsch came later and carries on, but every decade, she believes, has produced remarkable films reflecting political, economic and social shifts and moods.  Interestingly Chadha’s best work is influencing some Indians in the business.

So where are we now? In the words of novelist Hari Kunzru : ‘… Bollywood has taken a contemporary turn and production values often overshadow narrative. ..social-conscience movies dissolved during the eighties into a torrid orgy of wet-sari clad violence and were overtaken by a new generation of super-glossy love stories with big budgets and international locations’ I tire of the bling and Lamborghinis, vast mansions, super-lavish weddings and in-house gods covered in real gold leaf. Joshi too finds these developments disheartening: ‘Most of today’s film are not deep. They are pseudo, plastic, have no originality or integrity. Whereas before, directors were progressive, today they are regressive’. He is right. Previously movie makers were unabashedly Indian, used their own idiom, with integrity and without trying too hard to impress or emulate America or Europe.

Modern global capitalism has changed all that. Indians in the US and UK  are upwardly mobile, uber-aspirational and getting wealthy. They disdain moralising stories about the dirt poor rural Indian villagers or oppressed women. In India itself too, the rapidly growing urban middle and upper class want movies which cast them as heroes of a brave new world, not tearful folk tales. In India this January, the shrill daughter of a wealthy financier gave me an earful: ‘I mean you arty types like all those sad films with the poor and weeping women and all that. Why? Is it that you can’t accept that India is now a superpower? That you want us to stay backward for your entertainment? Why do you hate and mock Indians who walk tall in Jimmy Choos?’ Maybe she has a point. Are those who fetishize old, socially concerned movies, refusing to acknowledge, new, shining India? Perhaps, but only because those old divides and injustices have got worse. And anyway, there is no turning back.

Bollywood in the 21st Century is a rising brand. Of twelve white students interviewed at Middlesex University for this article, most recognised the ‘product’ and big names and some had watched the movies. That never happened before. Of the Asian students also interviewed, trendy and irreversibly  British, almost all watched the films and felt affirmed by them, just as Syal did way, way back.

Though there is too much dross, Bollywood has, in this decade, been making movies of real substance displaying innovation, high production values, courage and artistry. Examples include Omkara, based on Othello, a multilayered film of the destructive love between a gullible outlaw and his lover from a respectable family and Barfi, a story of  a dumb and deaf charmer, the highest grossing movie in India in 2012. The most highly paid stars are now choosing to act in non glam films with meaning.

So the future looks bright. My American friend, married to an Indian, is unsettled by that: ‘These movies are great, but they tell me power is moving away from the US, going east. And you know that’s hard for us Americans.’ Her husband cut in, ‘It’s time things were hard for you all. Hollywood will be humbled by Bollywood. Watch the space.’ Someone should make a movie about the clash of these two Titans.

Independent on Sunday 17th March 2013