Choking on Popcorn

My fingers have reached the sticky bottom of the bucket. I can feel sweat breaking out on my brow. Up in front of me I see a grown man chase a woman around a tree. I struggle to make sense of these moving images. Every fiber of my being seems to be rushing to my head. I half expect my spirit to leave my body and then watch as I simultaneously combust in my chair. I was promised a “wholesome” movie experience but this I didn’t expect.

That’s the thing about Indian romantic movies. You think you’ve seen them all but they always surprise you. Some, with their intrepid song sequences (picture a skimpily dressed heroine dancing in the snow-clad Alps) and some with their abysmal “actors” who have the emotional range of a pitchfork. But what is astounding is that most of these movies do very well at the box office. It probably has a lot to do with the ingeniously simple plots that these movies revolve around. Boy meets girl. They fall in love. Boy is poor. Girl blows nose into handkerchiefs made of money. Boy meets girl’s father. Father is infuriated upon knowing of boy’s financial situation, tells boy to remove himself from his property. Boy leaves with tail between his legs. The father promptly requests the services of the local gangster to “take care” of the boy (here, the audience is expected to understand that it is perfectly normal for reputed men like him to make frequent society with shady, hostile characters). Meanwhile boy and girl have clandestine meetings and go about the usual routine (hold hands, sing songs, dance around trees etc.) Few days go by before the aforementioned gangster and his motley crew of goons pay a visit to the boy. Now, these are the most listless gangsters you’ll ever see. That is not to say that they don’t earnestly try to look sinister. They do, but they look so disinterested that they might as well be postal workers. Needless to say, boy is beaten up badly. The next few days see the boy wallowing in self-pity and the girl singing songs to the moon on the balcony. Then, a sudden epiphany presents itself to the boy. He must fight for his love! So, armed with newfound determination, a little knowledge of taekwondo and the amazing ability to write impromptu poetry, the boy fights for his love. For the sake of brevity, let’s just say that the boy wins over father’s approval with an inspiring display of character. Boy and girl live happily ever after (by “happily ever after”, one can only assume that not a few offspring are spawned and several hundred songs are sung).

One hot afternoon I said, ‘dash it!’ and went down to the movie hall to watch the latest offering. It was a romantic drama where two best friends develop feelings for the same girl. The theatrical trailer marketed it as a coming-of-age, romantic drama. I’m always surprised at how seamlessly moviemakers combine multiple genres of filmmaking to form a complex mishmash. But coming back to the hot afternoon, I moved to the back of the hall as I usually do. This not only gives me a good view of the screen, but also let’s me gauge how well the film is going to do by looking at the audience’s reaction. The movie began, not surprisingly, with a song chronicling the childhood of the aforementioned best friends. Then the camera swiftly cut to their present life. The next one hour was dedicated to off-color jokes, inordinate backslapping and pseudo-comical adventures that added absolutely zilch to the relevance of the plot. Then, the intermission descended upon the hall from heaven.

Much to my dismay, the audience seemed positively excited at the thought of what the second half of the movie would be like. I loaded up on water and food to prepare for the oncoming onslaught of idiocy. Things got very serious in the second half. The leading lady, a walking, talking Maybelline advertisement, waltzed into the lives of our heroes and left them wide-eyed and obviously ogling her svelte figure. I was momentarily distracted by a patron who was complaining to his wife about the caramel popcorn in loud tones. People threw him annoyed glances and one gentleman even offered to shove his foot up dark, unmentionable places. Nobody seemed to realize that what was really getting this distraught man’s goat was the absurdity of the movie. ‘A kindred spirit’, I observed and diverted my glance back to the screen. The movie was nearing the end now. All the bonhomie and geniality had been replaced by hostile feelings and acrimony. The heroine, after much playing around had settled for the taller of the two friends. After some fighting, dramatic walk-offs and a song or two, it was revealed that our young vivacious heroine was dying of blood cancer. The two male protagonists were shell-shocked. This unfortunate news, however, served as the m-seal to the hole in the kitchen pipe that was their friendship. Later, as she lay on the hospital bed, the two friends embraced and everything was all right again. Except, the heroine died thirty seconds later. The movie ended with the friends walking into the sunset together. I couldn’t help wincing. Why are people always walking into the sunset? Are there more hot dog stands in that direction? Is it easier to get a taxi from there? I don’t get it. Needless to say, I walked out of the theater feeling older than my years. Almost like one of those people who sit by the fireplace all day in their rocking chair, stroking a cat and smoking a pipe. That day, I made up my mind about being more prudent in life.

I have made many attempts to get into the psyche of the producers of such baloney but always keep coming back to one question: why? That’s right. Why put the unsuspecting movie connoisseur through such a taxing time? Why, pray, spring upon him a song or dance or badly written dialogue every few frames or so? Why spend truckloads of money on sets, crew, technical apparatus and “actors” only to churn out what barely qualifies as balderdash? The answer is simple but disturbing. It’s what the people want. If you brought along to the movies a flashlight and focused it on every man, woman and child one at a time, you’d see that they all want to live the life they see on the big screen. Women swoon, men, even though less prone to exhibit strong emotions, smile widely as the hero goes through purgatory filled with bad guys with daddy problems to rescue his lady from the evil clutches of the “main” villain. So while I twist, turn and convulse in my chair, the people around me cheer the slick-haired hero and his well-placed kicks. What seems like an unfortunate collision between a garbage truck and a waste-management factory to me, is kosher cinema to most people. I have abandoned all introspective efforts and am now convinced that something is horribly wrong with people around me.

The thing that keeps me going despite all the twaddle is the hope that one day some enterprising, empathetic filmmaker will deliver people like me from this wasteland of cinematic garbage. Hope, That Thing With Feathers, is the reason I surrender to the will of friends who absolutely must devour every romantic film that hits innocent movie theaters. I take consolation in knowing that one day, when all the fog has settled and every bird that flies by me has a song on its lips, I will get out of a movie theater with a smile on my face and a spring in my step. Then, whistling merrily, I will walk into the sunset.