He gets up from his wooden chair, struts in his khaki uniform and faces menacingly
at the stranger in front of him. With a swift kick to the front leg of his guest’s chair, he knocks his surprised visitor to the floor. In an ominous tone, Vijay Khanna (Bachchan) growls, “This is a police station - not your father’s house where you can do as you please.”
- Scene from the film, “Zanjeer”, 1973
Loops of different movie reels roll in my mind - images and dialogues familiar to billions of South-East Asians, besotted by the Bollywood icon. In a telephone interview with Amitabh Bachchan, 63, I’ve been put on hold hours after he landed in Mumbai after a trip from Los Angeles for a film shoot and premiere. I try to remain calm and professional as the rich, deep, Godly baritone gets back on line.
“I used to attend premiers of my movies across America in the late '70’s and '80’s, but have not done so recently. I’ve had to carry press clippings with me after 9/11 in case there’s trouble with immigration, but there hasn’t been. I don’t think September 11, the aftermath, affected the Indian film industry a lot. If you make a good film, it’ll run,” he says, sounding none too wary after his transatlantic flight.
Well, jet-setting around the globe is part and parcel of a movie star, perhaps the biggest star in the world considering the vast reach of Bollywood that spans the Middle-East, South-East Asia and even Russia. Subtitled DVDs that spring from Mumbai even reach Iceland, such is the mass appeal of “the Big B.”
In a realm far removed from his humble beginnings, Bachchan's own life would make quite a caper. Born to Teji and Harivanshraj (a renowned Indian poet/author) Bachchan in 1942, in the historic city of Allahabad, he was not an overnight success. Notoriously nepotistic as Bollywood is, he had no connections to the film industry and no film was ever bank rolled on his father's account. There were years of struggle that followed a clerical career in Calcutta, which he chucked in pursuit of fame and film. Known to few, seen by fewer, his early releases such as
Saat Hindustani (Seven Indians, 1969) and
Reshma aur Shera (Reshma and Shera, 1970) had him in minor roles.
"I have not forgotten the days of struggle but I don't romanticise about it. Everyone has periods of difficulties that make them who they are, life's ebbs and flow hits one and all and I was no exception. I can say this distinctly though, I've never forgotten the people who treated me with kindness, of whom there many," he says, brushing aside further nostalgic trips down memory lane.
In 1971, Bachchan was cast as the best friend of the lead star Rajesh Khanna in the film
Anand, a supporting role where, finally, critics took note of his magnetic persona, and his emotive speech. The first ignition of fame was gaining momentum, a spark was lit.
In the film
Zanjeer (Chains, 1973), passed up by the leading stars of the time, Bachchan was cast as a ferocious police inspector, fed up by the corruption that permeated all strata of society. It was the right film, at the right time that catapulted the young unknown into the orbit of legend. A star was born, after a lengthy, nine-film pregnancy.
In the decade that followed, Bachchan did roughly five films a year (they don't call it the biggest film industry in the world for nothing) with at least three blockbusters each year. While
India Today labelled him "the one man industry", Jeetendra, his contemporary, commented,"As a superstar, he is No:1 to 10!"
A half-eaten apple lies on the ground. A nameless, tall man in semi-tattered clothes walks by. He sees the apple. He hesitates, looks around, pretends to walk away. Returns. Looks around again. Hesitates further. Assured no one's watching him, he swipes it from the ground and takes a bite; the first morsel of food he's tasted in two days. A look of satisfaction transforms his starved face for a moment. Unknown to him, a journalist is watching and recording every moment.
That man could be somebody, someday, she thinks to herself.
- from the film,
Main Azaad Hoon (I am Free, 1989)
Not unlike Hollywood, Indian stars rarely speak to the press except for when they want to promote their film. With trepidation, I venture to ask Bachchan not about his vast successes, but his box-office duds instead.
Main Azaad Hoon (I am Free) for instance. A songless tragedy about a poor man, made into a folk hero by a journalist, the Indian-ised version of Frank Capra's "
Meet John Doe"(1941) was a turkey at the turnstiles. "That film had a very fine script," he says without hesitation. "Javed Akhtar [screen writer] and I were working together after a very long time. It was brilliantly written by him and it was equally well executed by Tinnu Anand [the director] and I had a great time doing that role. I think it was a very sensitive film, it was very timely. It didn't have the usual commercial ingredients of escapist cinema, but I thought it was a very dramatic film. Obviously, it didn't do as well as expected and... that's the end of the story."
So can an Indian film, without the standard commercial staples of multi-coloured song-and-dance ever work? "Indian movies come with certain expectations," he says. "A mixture of song and dance, comedy, drama, action and emotions are served together. If a film is offered to me without the usual elements, I see no problems in doing it. I am not disheartened by commercial failure."
I would take his word for it, though history says otherwise. At his career's peak, Bachchan, rarely strode from the typical Hindi film. The fancifulness and false reality of Bachchan blockbusters was a tired (albeit successful) formula. In these "angry-young-man"films, Bachchan (often named Vijay, i.e. Victor) was the proletariat stalwart who fought, single handedly, against a dozen goons sent by the opulent, evil businessman/politician. Of course, almost always, the hero strutted out unscathed or died a heroic death after spluttering a verbose monologue. A hardcore hero to the core.
To be fair, Bachchan did on occasion step into more serious cinema. For example, in 1977, Bachchan starred in a tragedy,
Alaap (Prelude), a well disguised political commentary on the times by writer/director Hrishikesh Mukherjee. However, it barely created a murmur at the box office despite its impressive cast and music.
"I've always enjoyed working with Hrishi
da. He is a marvelous writer and director, more so a marvelous person. I've done my maximum number of films with him and I miss working with him. As a formidable editor and director, he was never indulgent with scenes and cinema, it got to the point quickly. The box-office status of the films didn't change our equation."
Bachchan was applauded by many critics for the films he did with Mukherjee and many lament that after the writer/producer/director retired, Bachchan was left to work with directors who were too in awe of the star to encourage him to try and stretch his horizons.
In past interviews, Bachchan's wife Jaya Bhadhuri, a celebrated actress herself, said she "doesn't believe in my husband's kind of cinema" and is a staunch critic of his films.
Within the Indian film industry, few criticise Bachchan. But in a rare interview a few years ago, legendary Lata Mangeshkar, the most successful singer in the history of Indian cinema, found fault with some of his films from the late 1980s. When I ask Bachchan about this, he says, "It is her opinion and I respect it, she's entitled to it."
Throughout the interview, Bachchan gives fluid and erudite answers, except when I ask him questions about the critics who've taken potshots at him. Then, and I can hear it (when I play back the tape!); he is less articulate and sounds a bit defensive. "It is their prerogative," he said at one point. "They should be given the freedom to express it and we, as actors, accept what they say."
Knowing the answer, I ask, has he ever had a problem with the Indian media?
"I don't think I've had a problem with them. Well... there was a problem, several years ago but that was amicably sorted out."
Some stars occasionally stop talking to the press, I point out, knowing he would know I was referring to his one time prohibition of press interviews. ALL press interviews. He created the first media ban in India - which did nothing to cease his marvelous cinematic career.
"Yes, I was under that [stars who ban the press] bracket... but that episode is over."
Bachchan is soaked in sweat and blood, clad in torn pants, a disheveled shirt and a red bandanna. When he comes onto the screen, the crowd roars, claps and whistles. You haven't witnessed Indian cinema, until you've seen a Bachchan film at a theatre filled with voluble fans.
This was in Southern India, in 1993, while I was attending my first movie ever with an all Indian audience, on Indian ground. The crowd claps at his dialogues and one-liners, some throw coins and lemons at the screen; like they do at the temples in Chennai, showing their reverence for the Gods.
During a song sequence, some dance in the aisles, others on their chairs. Suddenly, some break free and run towards the platform below the screen, to dance on stage. The show is halted. The police come, shuffle the over-enthusiastic fanatics away from the white screen. Calm is restored and the movie continues. I sit agape. You sense the power of this uncommon man with the common man.
He is no less than God for many ardent fanatics. He has his own temple in Calcutta, where devotees worship his photographs and a life-size sculpture. Attempts to buy his wax-replica from Madam Tussaud's in London were aborted (exorbitant costs of buying and shipping). But at the temple, fans can still hear the dialogues and songs from his films that continuously play on speakers. Naturally, his photographs, films, audio tapes, books, magazines and posters are on sale nearby.
He tells me the idol worship makes him a little uncomfortable ("It's highly embarrassing and I am humbled by my fans"). But the string of awards he's received in recent years is an annual tradition he's quite comfortable with, I think to myself. I'm corrected yet again.
"It means a lot to get this recognition," he says. "I don't crave it. I don't think I deserve it, but if it's given with good intentions, I welcome it and humbly accept it."
His own clothes are different. Impeccable, designer-labelled, even his accessories are stamped with an international logo. The eyes have a tinge of grey, his goatee is white and while his hair is jet-black, the cheeks sag a little. Alas, the man is mortal. This time, I see him at a press conference with his family. There is another Bachchan on the horizon of Indian cinema, trying to make it under his father's gargantuan shadow. The set phrase, "Nothing grows under the shadow of a Banyan tree," comes to mind from author R.K.Narayan.
Abhishek, Amitabh Bachchan's only son is trying to get a foothold in the film industry whilst Amitabh now cuts a fine father figure in the select films that he does. Four thousand miles away he may be, but even I can hear paternal pride on the phone, when I ask him about his son and the new generation of stars.
"I like all of them, they are all very talented and they're very well equipped, certainly more equipped than I was when I started. They have a huge sense of competition, a great passion to succeed and I think they work with heavier odds than we did at our time because they have to face an audience which is less tolerant. People have been tolerating me for a long time! But they have to be absolutely bang on at their first attempt," he says.
Before winding up what turned out to be 45 minutes and 36 seconds of talking with India's biggest star, I wonder if he had ever considered any other profession? "No I haven't. I'm just about managing this one!"
As the echolocation of his rich laugh fades, he continues. "I guess there are several roles that an actor wants to do but it's difficult to say offhand what they would be. If you get satisfied creatively, then that's the end of your life as an artist."
KEE Magazine, Summer 2006
* Kee would like to extend its gratitude to Mrs. Mira Mahtani and Ms Rosy Singh for arranging the interview.* Images courtesy of Dharma Productions, B.R. Films
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