Call For Entries : NFDC’s Film Bazaar Co-production Market, 2013

NFDC (National Film Development Corporation) has announced the Call for entries for one of its important programs, Co-production Market at Film Bazaar 2013 (Nov 21st- 24th). The seventh edition of South Asia’s Global Film Market- Film Bazaar, will be held from November 20th-24th, alongside IFFI (Nov 20th- 30th), in Goa.

- The first of its kind in South Asia, the Film Bazaar Co-Production Market offers a unique opportunity to filmmakers with South Asian stories seeking international co- productions as well as artistic support.

- Every year, the Co-Production Market invites a select number of directors and producers to present their projects to international producers, distributors, sales agents, funding representatives and other financial partners from across the world.

- Film Bazaar Co-production Market boasts an eclectic range of films that were successful outcomes, namely; The Lunchbox (by Ritesh Batra), Monsoon Shootout (by Amit Kumar), Titli (produced by Dibakar Banerjee), Deool (by Umesh Kulkarni), I AM (by Onir), LSD (by Dibakar Banerjee), Shor in the City (by Raj Nidimoru), to name a few, from the past editions.

- Film Bazaar Co-Production Market 2012 selected twenty six South Asian projects from thirteen countries, namely, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, Australia, New Zealand, USA, UK, Germany, France, Algeria, Canada, Netherlands and India including an Independent Filmmaker Project, USA.

- The deadline for applications is July 30, 2013.

- There is an entry fee of Rs 3,500.

- For more details on the program and its process, click here.

(All info from press release)

VOTD : Shit Indian Censors Say

Features Kartik Krishnan, Varun Grover, Namrata Rao and Richa Chadda.

Test Your CQ – 100 Qs on 100 years of Indian Cinema. Quiz by Vibhendu Tiwari

Vibhendu Tiwari, the well known quizzer on national quizzing circles had put up a 100 question quiz-paper recently on Indian Cinema,  for the Bombay Quiz Club, to commemorate 100 years of Indian Cinema. We are sharing the Quiz Paper here for the film buffs and readers of our blog.  We will share the answers subsequently in a few days.

Till then you can try cracking the quiz and post your answers  in comments section (with respective question number). Get ready to test your Cinema Quotient.

View this document on Scribd

if you are unable to view quiz questions above, try this dropbox link https://www.dropbox.com/s/1uiqzzxa4l0mp3v/VibhenduCinema100yrsQuiz.pdf

[Vibhendu Tiwari can be reached on Twitter at @vibhendu -

The Bombay Quiz Club Blog : http://bombayquiz.blogspot.in/ ]

In defense of M. Night Shyamalan

The header surely gives you an idea what this post is all about. And going by the latest trend, most of you might have skipped M. Night Shyamalan’s latest release, “After Earth”. But Rahul Desai saw it, and he argues that there’s more to him than what the world wants you to believe. Read on.

‘After Earth’ is realistically Shyamalan’s solo follow-up to ‘Lady In The Water’.

The latter was an original fairytale written from scratch by Shyamalan for his daughter, an urban mythical world imagined and created by the filmmaker – based within the confines of an apartment complex. It had fairies, creatures, parallel worlds, rules and characters intertwined with everyday life. It was a fascinating play on children’s classics, and if not for the limited tolerance of many of today’s film analysts, it could stand alone in its right on any illustrated bookshelf across the world. It was very much how a child with vivid imagination would look at today’s routine worldly scenarios, right from a boring stuttering caretaker to an eccentric writer neighbor. With ‘Lady In The Water’, I personally felt that M. Night Shyamalan cemented himself as one of the foremost storytellers of our times, even if his filmmaking wasn’t always as riveting as his writing.

Many called it an intensely personal and boring project, and concluded that he wasn’t the next Hitchcock or Spielberg after all.

It is interesting that while Americans and Hollywood in general rejected this melancholic little tale, countries like France embraced it and gave it glowing reviews – understanding the originality and simplicity at the root of his effort. This is not surprising considering the fact that movies like Avengers, IronMan and Harry Potter rule American box-offices, while the success of Avatar is attributed to more of a global phenomena with its path-breaking technology.

Shyamalan didn’t do himself any favours by making his only big mistake of his career in the name of ‘The Last Airbender’, and became the favorite whipping boy of American critics- who dismissed his films before they even hit screens anymore. This odd allergy even reached Indian shores, where reviewers began to rate his films at par with their own filmmakers dismal commercial projects- when in reality, no single Bollywood filmmaker is even half as original or is a visionary enough to match Shyamalan at his worst. Not to say reviewing is much of an art in countries like India, but this was not the first time they let the West influence their own opinions.

‘After Earth’ was meant to be a simple tale about a son trying to rescue his soldier father in a dangerous forest. Until Will Smith stepped in. It soon became a fantastical visual extravaganza about a son’s journey and redemption on an uninhabited dangerous waste planet named Earth.

Shyamalan took reigns of this project despite it being his first directorial venture not written by him. This was after the disastrous ‘The Last Airbender’- similarly heavy on VFX and mythical madness- and demonstrated Shyamalan’s willingness to step back into the ring for another brave round. Sneers that accompany his name on screen- either as story or screenplay writer of ‘Devil’- were from people who had forgotten that even his worst effort, allegedly ‘The Happening’ or ‘The Village’ was more original and daring than millions of book-to-screen adaptations and special effect orgies hitting the screens lately.

What is noteworthy is the storyteller’s consistent craving to tell and create new stories- not as films or Hollywood blockbusters- but as tales told with a whispering voice by the fireplace on a cold winter night. The seriousness and self-awareness that his stories contain isn’t necessarily a bad thing- with even superhero classics being dumbed down and sexed up for audience votes these days. And yet, Shyamalan is the man solely responsible behind possibly the greatest superhero story of our time- the unassuming and path breaking ‘Unbreakable’. It was the near perfect anti-epic that took the extraordinary-man-in-ordinary-world genre to another level. It used comic books and graphic novels (again a lead up to ‘Lady In The Water’) to illustrate the clear good v/s evil relationship in an unlikely unique tone.

With the amount of preparation put into ‘After Earth’- a 300-page Bible about the history of mankind and their decision to leave Earth (much like Wall-E) written by award-winning comicbook writers- Shyamalan took charge of the immense visual part of the project- blocking and constructing shots with his trademark anticipation-of-fear-is-greater-than-fear-itself style.

The monologues in the film bear a very existential ‘The Village’ feel about them, deconstructing basic human emotions, fear and danger, under the hood of survival and invincibility. At the center of it all was a fractured relationship between a warrior named Cypher Raige who has overcome fear and a son (Kitai Raige) that is struggling to overcome their history. This is portrayed wonderfully by an I-Am-Legend zoned Will Smith and his real-life son Jaden, who impressed all with his physicality and versatile talents in the nth version of Karate Kid a few years ago. The boy’s desire to acquire his destiny- convinced that is it different than others, much like Phoenix in Village, or Gibson in Signs, or Willis in Unbreakable- forms the crux of this post-apocalyptic story. Concepts like ‘ghosting’ and ranger-codes were created, along with the current destructive nature of Earth- all given a form not too dissimilar from the likes of Pandora or wasted Earth in Wall-E.

Yet, Shyamalan’s version of Earth was rejected before even being given a chance, despite Smith and his son carrying on admirably from where they left off in ‘Pursuit of Happyness’. Adjectives like ‘terrible’ and ‘unbearable’ were thrown around carelessly by respected critics like Bradshaw and the likes- in the process only further highlighting the huge dent caused to film criticism after the passing of master Ebert.

In the film, the talented father-son Smith duo make their relationship believable enough to even forgive the disappointment of the rather tame revelation of those-who-we-cannot-speak-of creatures at the end.
The filmmaker’s Hitchcockian awareness of the sheer bone-chilling result of what can be heard but not seen on screen, remains in tact, even in this attempt to tell a story over a vast canvas.

There is a particular scene that involves a big angry bird and Jaden. It portrays the most basic of primal emotions and could seem comical on paper- but Shyamalan’s understanding of when to reveal the bird in conjunction to Jaden’s startled face is second to none. It is a typically underplayed yet important moment in the film. It possesses wordless undertones that pretty much define Katai’s existence uptil then- constructed in a masterfully subtle manner that escape the blind rage of reviewers today. Instruments like adding the audiovisual contact at all times between father and son- letting the father view his son’s journey to manhood at close quarters while being helpless, or the position-mapping technology visible to father but not son- only add to Shyamalan’s impressive ability to manipulate simple visual situations into something far more suspenseful.

His framing has always been a highly underrated skill, and one can only imagine him snatching the screenplay away from the original writers to give it his own signature.
His use of a rousing background score still manages to tell its own individual story- words that cannot be read between the lines even on paper.

Often enough, his obsession with twist endings and surprise climaxes that try to convince the viewer that it was happening all along has led to his overambitious downfall- but the manner in which he uses dramatic orchestral themes at every single crucial second of such climaxes will be appreciated in the years to come, just like ‘Lady In The Water’ and ‘After Earth’ are destined to become perfect Sunday afternoon family viewings/storybook sessions for generations of Americans kids whose ancestors scoffed at a brooding serious auteur South-Indian writer that once told a slow-burning ghost story and a superhero tale that challenged the very concept of genres it represented.

(For more posts by Rahul, you can visit his blog here)

Jiah Khan’s letter made public by her mother Rabia Khan

Jiah Khan’s death not only shocked everyone but in the last few days there have been various speculations surrounding it. Initially Police didn’t find any suicide letter. But now her mom Rabia Khan ‘claims’ to have found a note written by her. She has made this note public and so we are sharing it here.

It’s quite sad and heartbreaking stuff, especially for someone who has just twenty five year old. As they say, the real picture is not what you get to see on screen.

VOTD : SHAME

It’s a new low for journalism in India. Especially film journalism. What most don’t realise is that now film journalism is mostly either plugged or paid. And if not, it’s just about the access. At Jiah Khan’s funeral, actor Aditya Pancholi got into a scuffle with the media. His car hit a camera tripod, broke it, then journos attacked him, blocked his way and extorted money (Rs 15,000 or so) from him. It’s correct to say that Pancholi started it by breaking the tripod with his car, but to extort money from him is quite a shameful act.

With 25-30 channels on the spot trying to shoot one person, scuffle is bound to happen. It means 25-30 reporters with boom mics, 25-30 cameramen with camera and tripods. Plus, attendants, onlookers. So imagine a scenario of about 100 people pouncing on one person. Anyone will react violently to get out of the situation.

The scenario has become worst with no discipline, no rules and regulations, cut throat competition to get the best visuals, and anyone with a camera or boom becoming a Video Journalist or reporter. Watch the videos to see it unfold before your eyes.

via Tanqeed

Mobius Trips – Read the story which was adapted into “Ek Thi Daayan”

Since the release of Ek Thi Daayan, many of us have been looking for the short story on which it was based. We asked Konkona about it on twitter as it’s written by her father Mukul Sharma. She guided us to his blog where he had posted the short story. Those of you who missed it earlier, posting the story here after taking his permission.

And click here for a short interview of his on converting the short into a novella and then a screenplay.

“Psst”

Misha looked up from the card house she was building to see her nine-year-old brother Bobo peek around the playroom door.

“What?” she asked, immediately interested.

“Want to see a trick?”

“Yes, yes!”

“No you’ll tell Daddy.” The head disappeared.

Misha jumped up upsetting the cards and ran out to the corridor. It was afternoon. And even though father would be sleeping, she didn’t want to take any chances. He had become so funny after mother died last year. Her wise eyes swept both ends of the corridor as she tiptoed to the outside door of the apartment. Reaching up — she was beginning to make it to the handle these days — she upped the latch and, very carefully or it would squeak, opened the door and stepped out into the eighth floor landing.

It was deserted. Her eyes darted to the two old fashioned elevator wells and saw one registered at the door. Through the tiny window she could see the lights on inside it along with some vague movements. Someone inside was doing something. Again on her toes, she went forward and pulled the door out a couple of inches. It was Bobo! He was standing in front of the button panel doing the funniest things. Once he pushed three buttons in at a time with his right hand while simultaneously jabbing in another couple with his left. Then, pointing one finger of each hand at the two rows, he alternately pressed one button of each row. When he did that, the overhead light seemed to dim a little. Misha opened the door fully. Bobo spun around.

“Why did you come?” he whispered angrily.

“What are you doing? Is this the secret?”

“Yes it is,” he said, “but I’m not going to tell you.”

“Please, please.”

“You’ll tell.”

“No, no I promise. I really promise.”

“Okay come, I’ll show you.”

She went inside. He put his finger to his lips, cautioning her to keep quiet.

“I need a lot of concentration to set it,” he said solemnly. Whenever he spoke like that, Misha knew he was really serious about something. He was only two years older than her but far more intelligent and could do a lot of interesting things with his hands. Like the time he had taught her how to control her dreams by moving her fingers in a special way for instance, and she deliberately dreamt of mother ten nights in a row. Now, with his back to her, he was fiddling with the buttons again.

“There,” he said turning around, “I’ve set it now. Watch what happens when I press the ‘G’ button.”

As he did, the lights dimmed once again and, slowly, the elevator began to descend. There was nothing like a trick to it at all thought Misha. It was going down like it did every time she went down in it herself. The ‘7’ of the seventh floor, written between the floor walls, flashed by the window, followed by the ‘6’ of the sixth floor and the ‘5’ of the fifth.

“Where’s the trick Bobo?”

“Wait,” he said impatiently, his eyes on the window.

Misha looked into his face, trying to read his thoughts. She could do it sometimes. She could usually guess when father would wake up, for example. When she looked back at the window, the ‘2’ of the second floor was just going by. She hoped the janitor wouldn’t see her downstairs because then father would know she’d been out of the house in the afternoon. The ‘1’ went by as she was thinking of what excuse she would have to give. Then, without any fuss and at absolutely the same speed, the trick unfolded. The ‘G’ of the ground floor also flashed by and there was no basement below their building.

It took her a moment to comprehend what was happening but when she did there was a thrilling sense of re-orientation. She whirled on Bobo who was standing there looking very pleased with himself. “That was a good trick!” she said clapping her hands gleefully in excitement, “Where are we going now? How far down?”

“Oh, a little way,” he replied mysteriously.

“What’s down there?”

“A playground I think, I’m not sure. I’ve only been down once before. Look!” he said pointing at the window suddenly.

Misha saw a small weeping child’s face flash by the window. It was a round lonely face about the same age as herself or a little older. Then another face flashed by, then another — there were lots of them. They stopped as suddenly as they had begun.

“Who are those Bobo?”

“Orphans,” he said knowingly, playing with the buttons again. “Keep watching.”

Misha looked up back at the window but there was nothing there. Just blackness outside. Suddenly a face came into it and scared her. It was a middle-aged women with long stringy hair and a snarled, unwashed face and whose hands clawed at the window glass desperately as she passed. Then there was blackness once more. Then that same face went by again. The faces quickly multiplied and rolled which Misha didn’t like at all. She was very frightened.

“Stop it now Bobo, I’m scared.”

“I have stopped it silly. We’re going up now. You can’t make out because it’s so black outside.”

They stood in silence. Nothing passed in front of them anymore.

“Who was the other person who came so many times Bobo?”

“A stepmother I think.”

“If,” said Misha with a far away look in her eyes, “I had a cruel stepmother, I’d like to put her in there too. You’d have to help me though.”

“Of course I’d have to help you. I’d have to set it for you first, wouldn’t I? Then when she came and pressed the button for ground floor, she’d automatically be taken right down to where we went and when the elevator finally stopped, they’d open the door and take her out and keep her. She’d never have stepchildren again to be cruel to.”

“Don’t you wish we had a cruel stepmother Bobo?”

*

“You’re lying!”

“God promise Daddy, I was in my room all afternoon just like you told me to.”

Mr Kapoor got off the rocking chair and advanced towards Misha till he was almost towering over her. Misha’s hands were ready to ward off a slap. Instead, he just bent his great body down till his face was inches away from hers and said in a soft, menacing voice:

“The janitor saw you downstairs. That’s how I know you’re lying.”

“But he couldn’t have,” blurted Misha, “I only . . .”

“That’s better. You only what?”

“Bobo was showing me something inside the elevator and . . .”

Mr Kapoor almost exploded in anger. “I don’t want to hear about your imaginary brother one more time, you understand?”

Misha nodded.

“I don’t know what pleasure you get in making all this up.”

But with that, to Misha’s great relief, he stalked away to his study. Misha went back to her broken card house.

*

Mrs Kapoor stood in front of the mirror in her petticoat and blouse and liked what she saw. Her dresses still showed her body off with magnificent ease. Her low-cut blouse for instance, not only cupped her large breasts firmly, but all too often tended to reveal their top halves each time her georgette saris slid carelessly off her ample front. She neither looked nor felt forty. Not even when Mrs Nandy, her rummy playing partner whose house she was on her way to right now, said all those snide things behind her back about her wrinkles. The girls at the afternoon’s session were going to be envious again.

She put on the sari, applied eye shadow, mascara, lip gloss and a bindi, in that order and went out into the landing. The elevator arrived moments later. She opened the door and went in.

She pressed the ‘G’ absentmindedly, opened her handbag and took out the bottle of Dior. So absorbed was she in spraying her cleavage that she hardly noticed that as the lift started descending, the overhead lights had dimmed a little. But then Mrs Kapoor’s mind was on other things. On her husband for one. He had told her to wait downstairs at 2.30 sharp where he’d pick her up from without having to go upstairs. She was hoping he would be on time. She hated waiting downstairs with all the servants, drivers and maids who worked in the building pretending they weren’t ogling her. On the other hand she hoped she herself was not late because he could be really irritable then. That made her panic. She glanced at the window to see which floor she had come to and saw the ‘2’ slide past and impatiently began counting the seconds of the ‘1’. Six seconds later it came into view and went. Exactly six seconds after that the ‘G’ too impassively slid past — like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Disbelief slammed Mrs Kapoor’s face into a cold statue of terror as everything from her gut to her mind caved in at the absurdity. Only a dumb vestige of curiosity still made her look zombielike into the window’s fascinating rectangle in silent slow-motion as it turned into a mirror in front of her and all she saw was her contorted face everywhere in it. She lunged on the button panel and jammed her fingers into the emergency bell push. An incredibly loud jangle exploded somewhere over her head and began falling off in intensity almost immediately as if the sound source were receding.

And Mrs Kapoor dug her frenzied hands into her hair above both ears and ruined her lovely, pulled back bun at the nape. Then, as her eyes locked with those of a little boy and girl in the mirror, she spun away to the rear wall and clawed at its smooth self-designed surface till she collapsed on the floor, eyes open unstaring, kicking, kicking and kicking at the red georgette sari strangling her from all over until the elevator stopped.

The janitor looked in astonishment at the spectacle at his feet in front of him. Others who had come running hearing the emergency bell found him gaping at a fantastically writhing red form in the elevator, which was now human, now an animal grunting savagely, howling insanities, talking of stepchildren, tearing her clothes, with saliva all over her chin.

Until a small crowd had gathered and Mr Kapoor, her tall, powerful husband, arrived to extricate his spitting raging wife in a mess of clothes and tears, screaming for all to hear, that her stepchildren had done this while her husband, facing her in total incredulity, kept mechanically repeating, as if that would bring her back to him, that they had no children, or stepchildren, at all.