The Trauma of Online Shows

When Modiji announced the lockdown to the nation in that innocent summer of 2020, I had no idea my life was going to change so drastically.

I was completely unprepared. I had no booze with me, and no herbs to help me sail through the tough times. A friend had left a few bottles of wine in our flat, and I promptly guzzled them down in a few days. With the constant news and mania surrounding our daily lives, my sanity took a hit. I played PUBG all day, and lay in bed like Kaikeyi in Ramayana.

When the second lockdown was announced, I was better prepared. The Telangana government thankfully kept wine shops open. And even though Vijay Mallya has been in the UK for a long time, his products ensured I was in the right spirits. The Gods in heaven ensured that my friends didn’t have to fly to Sanjeevani for crucial supplies.

But the worst part of the lockdown really was how it killed all my sources of income. I perform standup, review films, and write scripts and screenplays for films. I sometimes wish I hadn’t quit my job with Microsoft, so I could continue to rake in the moolah while sitting at home. When I look at my friends in software, I sometimes turn absinthe with envy. But who can argue with the urge to ‘pursue my passion’?

Films don’t release during lockdowns, so my weekly pleasure of watching a film and analysing it was lost. Writing for scripts and screenplays doesn’t pay anyway, so it isn’t too much to deal with. And finally, there is the issue of standup comedy. With lockdowns come the bane of modern standup comedians – ONLINE SHOWS.

With venues shut, we all assumed it would be a good time to get a lot of first-time audience to attend standup shows. They can watch from anywhere in the world, and the tickets are a lot cheaper, we reasoned with ourselves. And enthusiastically put up a series of online shows for people to attend. Little did we know of the issues that would plague online shows.

For one, there is no mic, seating, or performance area. Which means we get audience members lying down like Vishnu on their beds, or sitting on their commode like they are featuring in a 90s ad for piles. Then there are kids who have been asked to study, but are using their tabs to log into comedy shows. There are those that are lying down on their beds with a glass of whiskey, making us all feel like mujra dancers performing for Arab sheikhs. There are gentlemen (mostly men – I find that women are usually more presentable) who are so happy with their dinner that they chew their food during the show. High-definition cameras of today ensure I can tell if he’s having Paneer Butter Masala or Paneer Lababdaar.

Then there are those that will refuse to switch on their cameras or mics. Like Death Eaters waiting for Voldemort to rise, these people will silently observe the show – watching as comics continue to talk to empty rooms and rectangular blanks instead of people’s faces. And of course, there are those that were Mughal kings in their previous births. For them, the work of a comedian is to speak to THEM directly. After every joke, they will add their own comments, often bringing the entire joke to a crashing halt. Like Akbar rewarding Birbal for a joke, they will clap and declare their love or hatred for the joke.

It is in moments like this that I envy musicians. They can continue performing their jokes even if the audience completely mutes their mics. For us, it is important that we receive SOME sort of feedback from the viewers. And the income disparity in India is prominently visible during online comedy shows. For those with high-speed internet, the joke is immediately delivered. But for those with 3G connections, or those who are travelling – the joke takes a few seconds to reach. This means that after I deliver the punch line, there is a deafening silence. And when I have grudgingly moved on to the premise of the next joke, I hear a loud round of laughter! 

What makes it worse is that I usually perform in Hyderabad, the city with the best standup comedy audience. People of Hyderabad are too chilled out to take offence to anything. I have been performing in the city since 8 years now, only twice have I been interrupted in the middle of a show – once by a vegan, and another time by a woke person who interrupted the show to ask if the joke was on the comic, or if it was transphobic. Needless to say, neither of them were from Hyderabad.

Some audiences from other cities come to a standup show LOOKING for offence. They are minutely scrutinising every line, looking for the exact lines to get offended by. But Hyderabad has been kind to me. The people here can take a joke on their language, their religion, their culture, and their cinema. Or it could be that they are simply too lazy to take offence to anything at all!

The problem (as with the real advantage) with online shows that people can join from anywhere in the world. Sometimes, it is late at night in the US. And while I appreciate the efforts of people from the West attending my show, to see them yawn right in front of my face when I begin is disheartening. Then there are those who have seen a few videos on YouTube, and turn up on the show asking you to perform a joke that they heard.

It’s hard to explain to them that standup comedy is not a mushaira, and I can’t simply perform a line that somebody else wrote. Then there are those who begin the show enthusiastically. But every comedy show has a dip – so the comic can build it up towards his final point/joke/punchline. Without this, I’ll look like the love-child of Jim Carrey and Johnny Lever. But as soon as there’s a dip, they turn around and give this expression to the person sitting next to them:

And then there are those who have planned a party – you can see the bottles of whiskey lying around, and the laughter of Kauravas on their faces. These are usually the best kind of audiences – they have bought tickets to have a good time, and alcohol is known to work wonders on people’s sense of humour. That is until they love the joke so much, they repeat it to the person next to them, and high-five each other!

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As Modiji is gearing up to announce another lockdown to the nation, I am prepared in every other way. I have asked friends who own restaurants to keep a few bottles aside for me. Friends with shady co-friends have been assigned to speed-dials. My hard-disk has been dusted and kept ready for films that aren’t available on OTT platforms. And old friends Osho and Alan Watts have been added to playlists. 

The only thing left is to perform standup comedy. And this is where things might get murky. In case of a lockdown, I will be adding a number of online shows. You can watch them from anywhere, from the comfort of your home. If there are enough people from your continent, (as an experienced nocturnal creature), I could add a few extra shows that are conducive to your time zones.

But if you DO attend my online shows, please remember to keep your mics and cameras on. Please do not chew food or interrupt the flow of the show. And please, for the love of Pandit Gangadhar Vidyadhar Mayadhar Omkarnath Shastri, do not sit on the toilet while listening to my jokes. 

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Spider-Man and the Question of ‘Real’ Cinema

I have been reviewing films since 2008.

I started by reviewing on this blog, and later reviewed films for magazines and newspapers. Today, I work with Film Companion – probably the nation’s most respected film journalism portal.

And yet, there is one question that I keep getting – ‘According to you, what is good cinema?’. It is a question I have no real answer to. It’s a question I doubt anybody can have a decent answer to. It’s like asking someone what a good painting is, or what a good song sounds like.

After more than a decade of reviewing films, I have come to the conclusion that there really is no way to slot films into good, bad, and artistic. Cinema is truly an unique art form. It is not like painting, or music. It is not dance, or standup comedy. No other art form incorporates dozens of other art forms within it. No other art form lets you pick and choose aspects of itself – you could hate a film’s story, and yet be bedazzled by its cinematography. You could abhor an actor and his craft in a film, and yet be bowled over by the background score, or sound design. So when people dismiss films as bad or mediocre, it shoots a tinge of sadness through my heart.

A few months ago, Martin Scorsese raised a furore among cinema buffs when he declared that Marvel films weren’t really cinema. A number of opinions were thrown up among fans and detractors, and it is something that set me thinking. Is Marvel really cinema? Or is it not??

I have never been a huge fan of Marvel. The one film I truly enjoyed was the first Ironman, for the manner in which they shattered the stereotype of the superhero’s alibi. When Robert Downey Jr. flashes a smile to the press and declares ‘I am Ironman’ (ironically the last line he ever speaks), it made me gush ‘That’s so cool!’.

But since then, I have never really gushed over any Marvel film. I have had to review the Avengers films for Film Companion, and frankly, I found it to be underwhelming. The films that are usually hyped up – like Deadpool – make me want to yawn and throw up at the same time. Every Marvel film essentially has the same format. A self-aware superhero jacked up with superpowers and wisecracks, a few laughs strung into the script till the supervillain appears. A moral lesson (Power, responsibility, duty) that is used in the ending that culminates in an orgasm of VFX.

Over the years, I have watched nearly every Marvel movie that has released (thanks to fanatics posing as friends, and lovers who would rather stare at a screen than look at me). I did appreciate the jokes, and the self-awareness, but I found it hard to take the films seriously.

That is, until I watched Spider-Man: No Way Home.

I am not steeped in superhero culture. I haven’t read too many comics featuring the origin stories. I cannot rattle off names of heroes and villains. In fact, I have spent more time watching Shaktimaan than any of the Western superheroes that began invading our country after liberalisation.

But there was something about the film that drew me in. Perhaps it was the flipping of the trope of the hero’s double life. The film begins with Peter Parker’s identity exposed. Perhaps it was because the hero had to deal with a real-word problem – getting through a college admission. Or perhaps it was because I went in for the first day-first show – surrounded by maniacs across age groups.

(SPOILERS AHEAD: KINDLY AVOID IF YOU HAVEN’T WATCHED THE FILM)

But it was when Tobey Maguire appeared on the screen did I well and truly lose my shit. Tobey was the first superhero that I loved. Not enough has been written about the original Spider-Man movies.

For the first time, a superhero wasn’t jacked up on steroids and arrogance. Tobey’s Spider-Man was a geeky loser who hung out around chemistry labs and magazine offices. He briefly gets the girl, but quickly loses her to his best friend – the son of a rich, illustrious supervillain. He delivered pizza and got bullied at school. As a school kid, I connected to Tobey Maguire’s Spider-Man like no other before, or since.

Such was the impact of Spiderman in my life – I was in school and got bitten by a spider during the lunch break. I waited for everybody to leave for the classes, and ran up to my room. I closed the doors (didn’t want people to know of my powers), and switched off the fan (with great power comes great responsibility to save electricity). I then went up on my toes, and jumped! Nothing happened, of course.

Tobey Maguire’s Spiderman revived a whole genre. Before him, superhero films were campy and clunky. They took themselves too seriously, and the VFX made you suspect your nephew was the Creative Director.

I’m Batman…and I’ve got big, rubber nipples.

To see the man on screen again – his warm face having smudged around the edges, his shoulders drooping, his eyes tired – made me feel a number of things deep within.

And this is where Marvel showed its coolness. They didn’t portray him as Akshay Kumar – a 45 year old trying to compete with teenagers. They showed him having back pains. As a man who hides his superhero costumes under pullovers, jeans and sneakers. When he speaks to the Tom Holland’s Spider-Man, he doesn’t inspire him to smash the villains, but rather to be kind to himself.

Exactly a decade ago, a friend showed me a video on YouTube. It was the CEO of Marvel, discussing the company’s plans for the next 10 years. It was the first time I heard of names like Black Panther and Dr. Strange, and I remember scoffing at the idea of heroes who did magic and used a flying hammer to defeat heroes.

For years since, I harboured a grudge that Marvel had completely destroyed the superhero genre. But watching the latest version of the film made me realise that they had taken a hackneyed genre and elevated it. The heroes in Marvel do not merely want to capture the villain anymore. They are battling their inner demons, or seeking answers to questions like ‘What is the point of life?’. In that sense, they could be hanging out with Ramana Maharishi even as they are battling Thanos.

But what really stayed with me was the experience of watching the film. In front of me, a man in his 40s stood up and cheered when Tobey Maguire appeared on screen. Behind me, 10 year old kids stood up on the chair and clapped when Andrew Garfield appeared – all confused and guilt-ridden.

When the three of them worked together in the climax, the theatre was a sight to behold. Youngsters and old people alike – hooting and clapping. And it was precisely at that moment that I thought – ‘Isn’t this cinema?’

The ability to make people purchase tickets, come to a hall, to hoot, cheer, laugh and cry. To have people across age groups rooting for fictional characters. To have films that are mostly actors jumping in front of green screens – and yet connecting to people across the globe.

Why is this not cinema?

Martin Scorsese is one of the greatest filmmakers of all time. While I might personally find that all his recent films are merely rehashes of each other – he will go down in history as one of the greatest of all time.

And yet, when he made Taxi Driver, similar arguments were thrown up by the filmmakers of the 70s. They cried that this was not cinema – this was a perversion, an excuse to show blood, gore and sex on screen. They were as wrong as Mr. Scorsese is today.

I doubt there could be a concrete definition of what cinema truly is. But on that Thursday, as I walked out of the theatre with emotional children and satisfied fathers around me, I realised that cinema is more than just good frames and great lines.

It is also about giving people an experience that they will cherish all their lives.