His knowledge of his craft occupies an infinite space in continuum, yet Shyam Benegal remains the epitome of simplicity. The one-man film school makes it look all seem so simple for Dhanya Nair Sankar

 
When Harmony first set forth to contact the legendary filmmaker, we expected to go through an assistant at the very least, if not a skein of public relations machinery. But when we called the number, a soft voice pleasantly informed us that he wasn’t “the secretary” but the man himself. We eventually meet Shyam Benegal in his office tucked in an unglamorous part of South Mumbai. Oblivious to the cacophony of activity and phones around him, the 76 year-old is a little tired—he has had two meetings before this—but nevertheless eager to recount his journey from Ankur (1973) to Well Done Abba (2010).

The world had no choice but to take notice of Ankur. Based on a true incident in Benegal’s hometown of Hyderabad, it’s a tale of sexual and economic exploitation of the helpless and poor at the hands of the rich and mighty. The film dared to touch upon uncomfortable subjects like alcoholism, caste, poverty and religion, bringing to the fore ‘the other India’ seldom portrayed in the cinematic world. The film was nominated for the Golden Berlin Bear award at the Berlin International Film Festival (1974) and won Benegal his first National Award. More acclaimed films over the years translated into more accolades, including the highest recognition in Indian cinema: the Dadasaheb Phalke Award in 2005.

He followed up Ankur with Nishant (1975), keeping his focus trained on rural oppression and sexual exploitation. The story of abduction and rape of a teacher’s wife at the hands of powerful zamindar and how the village polity turns a deaf ear to the poor husband’s pleas for help rocked us out of our comfort zones. While Ankur and Nishant were a gut-wrenching depictions of exploitation, the final installment of his rural trilogy Manthan (1977) was a paean to empowerment, and how collective might can change a society and its politics. The 1970s are often termed as definitive years for the Indian cinema movement and the credit for this largely goes to Shyam Benegal’s first four films, including Bhumika (1978), a biopic on Marathi stage actor Hansa Wadekar and her search for identity and self-fulfillment.

Sensitive, powerful, prolific are just some of the adjectives used to describe him; but they seem plebeian considering Benegal’s oeuvre. While trade pundits carped at Benegal’s latest offering Well Done Abba, the proof of the pudding lies in its taste. It’s a heartfelt tale of a driver working in Mumbai who goes back to his village to find a suitable groom for his daughter, only to get mired in the drought plaguing his hometown, and the attendant corruption, administrative idiosyncrasy and bureaucratic red tape, all to build a well on his home turf—the film won Benegal his eighth National Award. “Recognition is certainly flattering,” he says, breaking into an endearing smile. “I am a storyteller and I feel best when I am telling one.”

IN HIS OWN WORDS:

I found my true calling when I was a kid. I made up my mind to become a filmmaker when I was just eight! Even though I didn’t fully understand it, there was something deliciously intriguing about the process. I completed my master’s in economics—a subject I loved in my university days—and entered the advertising industry but I wasn’t at peace because I knew I had to become a filmmaker. I grew up in Hyderabad where there was no film industry; if I had suggested it to anyone they would have thought I had a hole in my head. As I came from a fairly modest family, there was no question of pursuing my dream in Bombay, Calcutta or Madras. My parents thought I should complete my education so I could at least earn my daily bread.

I was always clear about wanting to make my kind of cinema. When I entered the advertising industry, the first few commercials were being made in India. I saw an opportunity in copywriting; I thought it could help me hone my skills in writing film scripts. There were no film schools then; the only way you could become a director was to assist someone and slowly make your way up the ladder until you first became the first assistant, not quite knowing if you would ever become a director. In the process, you would get caught up with how your director is making films, be influenced by his style and body of work. I didn’t want this. I wanted to be in films to make my kind of films—and nobody else’s. In my advertising career that lasted about a decade, I ended up making over a thousand commercials. It was quite a learning experience.

The transition from advertising to filmmaking was not easy. I lasted so long in advertising because there were so few opportunities in films then. I had worked on a script for many years; it turned out to be the script for Ankur. I spent over 12 years meeting everyone who counted [in the film industry] but I couldn’t get any producer interested. When I finally made it, it turned out to be a big success, critically and commercially. I was here to stay.

I was lucky to be able to finance my films. Manthan started it all. It was actually the brainchild of Dr Verghese Kurien, the father of the white revolution. He also helped me write the script for the film. Being the head of the Gujarat Cooperative Milk Manufacturer’s Federation, he inspired dairy farmers to give ₹ 2 each and help produce a movie worth ₹ 100,000. They readily helped because the film was about them. They felt connected. Yes, it was an innovative way to produce a film. And thanks to the film’s success, I was able to replicate the model to produce movies like Yatra and Antarnaad [smiles].

I don’t quite agree with the tag of ‘parallel cinema’. Till the early 1970s, the Indian audience was subjected to a certain kind of cinema with a fixed narrative and lots of songs and dance. The mid-1950s unleashed the creativity of legends like Satyajit Ray, soon followed by Mrinal Sen and Ritwik Ghatak. They were the only ones who dared to stray from the formula. For a young bunch of filmmakers, they became very influential figures. A decade after Bengali films, the Malayalam film industry was affected by this change. With time this influence started spreading across Kerala, Karnataka and Orissa. Then finally, by 1970, the style came to Hindi films. I was one of the last Hindi film directors to follow this road. These films started to be known as ‘new’ or ‘alternate cinema’. But in my opinion, there was nothing alternate about them; it was just a more real form of filmmaking.

Though I have never imitated anyone, Satyajit Ray has been a major influence. My uncle, who knew about my passion for cinema, recommended that I see Pather Panchali. I was in Calcutta then and found the film so compelling that it was like an explosion in my head. I watched it over a dozen times on that very visit. When I went back to Hyderabad, I wrote to Satyajit Ray saying I wanted to show the film in the film society I had started in my college. By that time he had made his second film. He was very prompt and put me in touch with his producers; whatever he made was then shown in the society. I met him much later, on the sets of Nayak, on the last day of shooting. He was quite gracious. We spoke for long and he answered all my questions. He recommended me for the Homi Bhaba Film Fellowship before I made Ankur. He was my first audience for every film I made until his demise.

A narrative need not be told from A to Z. Stories have to be told differently as a film has to be an experience. If it is not an experience and does not offer any kind of insight, it’s a film not worth having been made. That’s one reason why I have been a bit restless in the manner I choose subjects. I have made so many different kinds of films; one of them has been biographical, others are based on history, literature and even mythology. I don’t like to repeat my subjects either in terms of form or the genre. Unless you reinvent yourself, you are certainly not likely to do something different from what you have done before. I give a lot of thought before sketching characters, their personalities, quirks, social environment, personal relations and gender relations. These are the multiple layers present in everyone. All these bring out the extraordinary in the ordinary.

Mahabharata is the greatest epic of all times, including our times. I have always believed that it throws up all possible human archetypes. One could use these whenever, wherever, and in whatever time period, ancient or contemporary. I used the idea for my film Kalyug. The backdrop of the story was an industrial family collapsing much like the one in the Mahabharata. It is certainly an evergreen subject because the portrayal of human spirit in the epic can withstand the test of time. I haven’t seen the recent film Rajneeti but kudos to Prakash Jha for drawing inspiration from the epic because it’s challenging to draw your characters from it and do justice to them.

I think I am a feminist. To me, feminism means men and women are equal. I don’t look at it the way they do in Europe and America, where men and women are competitively equal. I think they should be complementarily equal. I believe both men and women are arcs; they make a healthy circle when they come together, and only then is there greater harmony. We have had a long history of oppression of women. I believe in women’s empowerment and have consciously created strong female leads in some of my films, hoping they could serve as role models. With our kind of democracy, it is actually possible for women to exercise their rights and emerge stronger.

The days I have spent in Parliament have been a great learning experience. As a nominated member of the Rajya Sabha, I am not really a 24/7 parliamentarian. But I attend meetings on subjects I am interested in, such as land acquisition, media, television, and media ethics. I actively participate in discussions on these subjects and listen to other voices, which open my eyes to the larger issues. However, I will not get into active policymaking as I don’t have the knowledge required for that kind of magnificent job.

I like travelling, especially to rural pockets and to my roots. Each time I travel to Hyderabad, the city fascinates me. Hyderabad is many things—there is the very old city, the old-new city of the 20th century and now the new-new city. It has seen all kinds of periods and, amazingly, it’s going through yet another transition. You will see all kinds of people who have been part of this transition; they make for interesting case studies. A lot of my movies are, therefore, set in Andhra Pradesh. I go to rural areas for research to ensure I correctly depict the feel of the place.

All my films use a particular dialect as well. I think using the local dialect is not just useful but vital for the film’s grammar. A film that doesn’t get the local idiom right loses out on credibility. If you want your story to have universal appeal, your characters need to be identifiable. They cannot look like exotic species in an alien land.

People go to the cinema not to be persuaded but entertained. So it is foolhardy to expect a single film to bring in social change. For instance, the cinema of the 1970s and the 1980s did have some kind of impact on the younger generation, but it was also the social and political situation of the times that created the impact. Films can certainly raise awareness about a certain issue, propagate it and make the audience think. But there’s nothing wrong in making films solely for the sake of entertainment. Cinema is both an art and industry. Like any business, it also works for the motive of profit. And while some filmmakers strike a balance between what is artistic and commercially viable, there are others who choose only entertainment. There is nothing wrong with it.

We are now perceived as intelligent filmmakers. We are very rooted in our culture and Indian films, by and large, have always reflected that. Moreover, with time, Indian filmmakers have become bold. They are aware of the changing audience and changing tastes and no longer shy away from technology. Their scripts have become foolproof. Now, more and more foreigners are watching us for our global appeal. I think some directors to watch out for include Debasheesh Banerjee, Rituparno Ghosh, Vishal Bhardwaj and Anusha Rizvi.

I hope my students have benefitted from what I’ve taught them. I am chairman of the academic council at Whistling Woods, a film school in Mumbai, and also teach at other film schools around the world. Sadly, I haven’t done much teaching in the past three years. These filmmakers in the making have two distinct advantages: their lack of inhibition, and their intelligence. They are not only filmmakers but filmmakers with class for they are all thinkers. Young filmmakers also don’t shy away from taking risks and breaking away from the norm.

My daughter Pia has also been confident enough to follow her heart. She is her own person—she has dabbled in fashion design and designed costumes for my films; produced some of my early documentaries; and produced and directed some ad films. I am happy with whatever she does because she is so mature. To me, that’s a sign of successful parenting.

People call Neera and I the ‘golden couple’ but there’s no big secret to it. For any marriage to succeed, the partners have to remain compatible. The initial romance might go but the marriage has to sustain itself. They should know each other; be aware of each other’s likes, dislikes, aberrations and tempers. It is not just about compatibility but being continuously so—you can’t say I am going to be compatible today and forget about it tomorrow. There is never a time when you can sit back and say everything is hunky-dory. All relationships need to be dynamic and alive; they must be continuously worked on.

Ageing is certainly an endearing process. I don’t think of it as a death knell at all. One of the most crucial things in life is not to give up. If you have given up, you are useless to yourself and to life. Positive ageing is just a natural extension of this attitude.

FILMOGRAPHY

• Ankur 1973
• Nishant 1975
• Manthan 1977
• Bhumika 1978
• Junoon 1979
• Arohan 1982
• Kalyug 1982
• Trikaal 1986
• Suraj Ka Satvan Ghoda 1993
• Mammo 1995
• Sardari Begum 1997
• Samar 1999
• Zubeida 2001
• Welcome to Sajjanpur 2008
• Well Done Abba 2009

Photo: Kamlesh Pednekar/DNA
Featured in Harmony – Celebrate Age Magazine
March 2011