Posted by: Dibakar Banerjee
Posted on: November 18, 2008 at 2:11 am
Nikal ja saamne se nahin to maar dalunga!
Thus gentle words of endearment did Paresh Rawal speak to his make up man of eight years on the first morning the beard found his cheeks on the sets of Oye Lucky.
The beard was a problem. Paresh Rawal hates putting on a false beard. His skin can’t take it. He can’t talk. He shuts off. He hates growing one even more, and even if he did grow one, by the time he would grow one the size we needed we would all have reached dotage.
As soon as the beard was fixed, the generally happy, relaxed mood of the set changed. We had become used to a Paresh who was easy, patient, chilled, forever on the sets, standing at his mark happily even between lighting adjustment, benevolently chiding the crew to get a move on. (Jaldi karo, The desire for acting is strong! Jaldi jaldi!)
The fucking beard changed all that.
The crew was edgy. My irrepressible Chief Vandana’s voice had dropped a few decibels. Priya my EP was very very calm – which meant she was very very tense. Kartik the DOP was actually hurrying up with his last minute adjustments! Paresh’s make up man was standing calmly, all stoic resignation, about ten feet away from Paresh.
Paresh was in the get up. He was looking strong, virile, tense, bottled up, a hairbreadth away from flying off in a rage. Just the kind of father we don’t need when growing up as a juvenile delinquent in an inner city ghetto. But just the kind of father Lucky had in the script. And just the right mix of glowering, bellowing frustration and bullying that makes a son who desperately wants to look up to you, hate you instead.
Bong, we nailed it, I said to myself.
Paresh and I had had a chat about this months ago when it became clear that he would have to put on a false beard for the first time in years. His friends were actually calling up and confirming the news, disbelievingly. Apparently this was a coup. Paresh don’t beard up for nobody – that’s how the industry grapevine went. Paresh clarified to me that after giving in to my demand to do two roles in the film, accepting the third one was pure, mad greed. That he was scared about the triple role to begin with, because it needed reinventing another person, voice, gait, demeanour and behaviour for the third time within a space of two hours and yet make it believable. He had accepted it for the sheer challenge. But this beard was another matter altogether. It would render him itchy, cranky, set his face in a grim mask, and he would not be able to smile.
Both of us swallowed and lived with this for a while. Moments ago we had talked excitedly about how to differentiate the three characters.
Gogi Bhai, the first character I had approached him for, was all set. A research thru all the famous eighties hairstyles – Anil Kapoor, Mithunda, Raj Babbar, Dheeraj Kumar – had given me the perfect wig. All hennaed brown, middle parting, forehead and back of the head overhang without sideburns. The perfect style for a slightly obsolete type – the singing, dancing musical party leader who would get his troupe to entertain you at Goldie’s marriage or Rimpy’s son’s mundan. The voice was nailed – a hoarse, cracked rasp belying years of shrieking and warbling on rickety stages with over – reverbed sound systems. We had Akshay, our voice coach, record a CD of a phone conversation about a long overdue payment in the typical style and accent. Paresh was practicing using that as an audio guide. Manoshi and Rushi, the costume designers had compiles a wardrobe – all black suits, white shoes, Jai Mata Di dushalas (for those Jagaran nights that Gogi Bhai must be doing), gold chains and polo necks that actually made him sexy in a crazy, seedy way.
Doctor Handa, the second character, was set too. A nice potbelly. Cravats. Sunday sports blazers that one would wear to the Karishma Nagar Amity Club (Regd.) Annual Tambola Night. A smooth moustache. A smooth side parted hundred buck haircut. A smooth smile. Smooth, silky voice. Glasses, metal framed. Leather card case. And the eyes. A cow like, almost effeminate gaze that looks at you sideways adoringly before the thin, fawning voice asks, “You’re from film line?” and a manicured hand extends a Schaeffer Gold Tip at you.
Then came Lucky’s father. A cooler manufacturer from Rajouri Garden – putting his three sons through government school and maintaining a mistress in the house at the same time. Tough face, tougher hands. Dark, calloused hands that have shoveled knee deep snow in Kazakistan on a fake work permit, or wound miles of copper wire on industrial generators, or driven a beat up Bajaj Chetak eighty kilometers daily to and from the job, and had beaten a long suffering wife into silent submission. A hard, lined face, still holding on to the virility and strength of a passionate man. But giving in to the growing failure, frustration and futility of a life deadened by wrong choices.
A face with a beard that would go through three stages of aging. What a role for a third role in a triple role.
Now we doubted whether there would be the third role at all.
Then the famous moment that I would write about in my memoirs one day, struck.
What if he doesn’t smile at all? One of us, I don’t remember who, said.
Throughout the film? All the scenes?
Yes. That’s an immediate departure from Gogi Bhai, who laughs that animal laugh we worked out.
Hmm. Interesting. That would help the character the way we see it.
And he can be constantly cranky! Because he’s a loser, a man slowly being defeated by life, and he knows it!
And the fact that he’s losing grip on his son, who has started rebelling! He can be glowering all the time!
And you can be in a bad mood through out… it’ll only help! We’re in a difficult location, the crew will move faster…
Such is the power of one fake beard. A character is born.
Right now about five hundred people were peering down the picturesque rooftops and balconies of Delhi’s Sarai Rohilla neighbourhood to see Paresh Rawal give the shot. His character was in full spate, raging, bellowing, throwing pots, pans and whatever came in his hands at his errant son Lucky.
The scene was noisy, funny, angry, Paresh was magnificent. I was rubbing my hands in wicked glee.
The scene got over. We started wrapping. Paresh left after giving his son Lucky a hug, mumbling maaf karna yaar! Apologizing for all the abuse, physical and verbal, that he had heaped on the young fourteen-year-old actor, who in fact was acting in his first film ever.
The people were still standing around, waiting. Why, we wondered. Then I overheard something that explained it all.
Abe yaar dhoop me aur kitti senkenge? Paresh rawal ka scene kab utarenge ye?
A ke gaya dekha nahin?
Kaun wo mental sirdaar?
Aur kya?
Abe koi na hai wo Paresh Rawal. Ainwi? Free fund me Paresh Rawal? Local actor se scene karwa rahen hain fir Paresh Rawal kahke rate badha rahen hain!
As I said earlier, we nailed it.
Posted on: November 18, 2008 at 2:11 am
Nikal ja saamne se nahin to maar dalunga!
Thus gentle words of endearment did Paresh Rawal speak to his make up man of eight years on the first morning the beard found his cheeks on the sets of Oye Lucky.
The beard was a problem. Paresh Rawal hates putting on a false beard. His skin can’t take it. He can’t talk. He shuts off. He hates growing one even more, and even if he did grow one, by the time he would grow one the size we needed we would all have reached dotage.
As soon as the beard was fixed, the generally happy, relaxed mood of the set changed. We had become used to a Paresh who was easy, patient, chilled, forever on the sets, standing at his mark happily even between lighting adjustment, benevolently chiding the crew to get a move on. (Jaldi karo, The desire for acting is strong! Jaldi jaldi!)
The fucking beard changed all that.
The crew was edgy. My irrepressible Chief Vandana’s voice had dropped a few decibels. Priya my EP was very very calm – which meant she was very very tense. Kartik the DOP was actually hurrying up with his last minute adjustments! Paresh’s make up man was standing calmly, all stoic resignation, about ten feet away from Paresh.
Paresh was in the get up. He was looking strong, virile, tense, bottled up, a hairbreadth away from flying off in a rage. Just the kind of father we don’t need when growing up as a juvenile delinquent in an inner city ghetto. But just the kind of father Lucky had in the script. And just the right mix of glowering, bellowing frustration and bullying that makes a son who desperately wants to look up to you, hate you instead.
Bong, we nailed it, I said to myself.
Paresh and I had had a chat about this months ago when it became clear that he would have to put on a false beard for the first time in years. His friends were actually calling up and confirming the news, disbelievingly. Apparently this was a coup. Paresh don’t beard up for nobody – that’s how the industry grapevine went. Paresh clarified to me that after giving in to my demand to do two roles in the film, accepting the third one was pure, mad greed. That he was scared about the triple role to begin with, because it needed reinventing another person, voice, gait, demeanour and behaviour for the third time within a space of two hours and yet make it believable. He had accepted it for the sheer challenge. But this beard was another matter altogether. It would render him itchy, cranky, set his face in a grim mask, and he would not be able to smile.
Gogi Bhai, the first character I had approached him for, was all set. A research thru all the famous eighties hairstyles – Anil Kapoor, Mithunda, Raj Babbar, Dheeraj Kumar – had given me the perfect wig. All hennaed brown, middle parting, forehead and back of the head overhang without sideburns. The perfect style for a slightly obsolete type – the singing, dancing musical party leader who would get his troupe to entertain you at Goldie’s marriage or Rimpy’s son’s mundan. The voice was nailed – a hoarse, cracked rasp belying years of shrieking and warbling on rickety stages with over – reverbed sound systems. We had Akshay, our voice coach, record a CD of a phone conversation about a long overdue payment in the typical style and accent. Paresh was practicing using that as an audio guide. Manoshi and Rushi, the costume designers had compiles a wardrobe – all black suits, white shoes, Jai Mata Di dushalas (for those Jagaran nights that Gogi Bhai must be doing), gold chains and polo necks that actually made him sexy in a crazy, seedy way.
Doctor Handa, the second character, was set too. A nice potbelly. Cravats. Sunday sports blazers that one would wear to the Karishma Nagar Amity Club (Regd.) Annual Tambola Night. A smooth moustache. A smooth side parted hundred buck haircut. A smooth smile. Smooth, silky voice. Glasses, metal framed. Leather card case. And the eyes. A cow like, almost effeminate gaze that looks at you sideways adoringly before the thin, fawning voice asks, “You’re from film line?” and a manicured hand extends a Schaeffer Gold Tip at you.
Then came Lucky’s father. A cooler manufacturer from Rajouri Garden – putting his three sons through government school and maintaining a mistress in the house at the same time. Tough face, tougher hands. Dark, calloused hands that have shoveled knee deep snow in Kazakistan on a fake work permit, or wound miles of copper wire on industrial generators, or driven a beat up Bajaj Chetak eighty kilometers daily to and from the job, and had beaten a long suffering wife into silent submission. A hard, lined face, still holding on to the virility and strength of a passionate man. But giving in to the growing failure, frustration and futility of a life deadened by wrong choices.
A face with a beard that would go through three stages of aging. What a role for a third role in a triple role.
Now we doubted whether there would be the third role at all.
Then the famous moment that I would write about in my memoirs one day, struck.
What if he doesn’t smile at all? One of us, I don’t remember who, said.
Throughout the film? All the scenes?
Yes. That’s an immediate departure from Gogi Bhai, who laughs that animal laugh we worked out.
Hmm. Interesting. That would help the character the way we see it.
And he can be constantly cranky! Because he’s a loser, a man slowly being defeated by life, and he knows it!
And the fact that he’s losing grip on his son, who has started rebelling! He can be glowering all the time!
And you can be in a bad mood through out… it’ll only help! We’re in a difficult location, the crew will move faster…
Such is the power of one fake beard. A character is born.
Right now about five hundred people were peering down the picturesque rooftops and balconies of Delhi’s Sarai Rohilla neighbourhood to see Paresh Rawal give the shot. His character was in full spate, raging, bellowing, throwing pots, pans and whatever came in his hands at his errant son Lucky.
The scene was noisy, funny, angry, Paresh was magnificent. I was rubbing my hands in wicked glee.
The scene got over. We started wrapping. Paresh left after giving his son Lucky a hug, mumbling maaf karna yaar! Apologizing for all the abuse, physical and verbal, that he had heaped on the young fourteen-year-old actor, who in fact was acting in his first film ever.
The people were still standing around, waiting. Why, we wondered. Then I overheard something that explained it all.
Abe yaar dhoop me aur kitti senkenge? Paresh rawal ka scene kab utarenge ye?
A ke gaya dekha nahin?
Kaun wo mental sirdaar?
Aur kya?
Abe koi na hai wo Paresh Rawal. Ainwi? Free fund me Paresh Rawal? Local actor se scene karwa rahen hain fir Paresh Rawal kahke rate badha rahen hain!
As I said earlier, we nailed it.
oh man love that
ReplyDeleteYes truly you nailed it 😊
ReplyDelete