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BATTING FOR BOLLYWOOD: APPEARING IN A BOLLYWOOD FILM
Independent
Monday, 6 October 2008
UK
Indian movies certainly look like fun. But what's it like to actually
appear in one? Andrew Buncombe finds out
The Indian bowler paused momentarily, gave the ball a final polish
and then began his run towards the crease. His teammates yelled
encouragement, urging him to make the crucial breakthrough. He ran in,
swung his arm and let fly. The ball pitched on the rock-hard ground
and I played forward, pushing at the hissing ball.
Bollywood plots are not known for their strict adherence to
reality. This was certainly the case when I found myself opening the
batting for the England cricket team in the 2011 World Cup. Can you
bat, the frazzled-looking assistant director had asked. "Well...,"
I began to explain. "That'll do," he replied. "Get padded up".
The Indian movie industry churns out hundreds of films every year
and almost all have one thing in common: the need for plenty of
extras. People make careers playing bit parts in various films,
perhaps without ever uttering any dialogue. When the makers of
World Cupp 2011 - the use of double letters in movie titles is a
trend - arrived in Delhi to shoot the cricketing scenes of a sport
and match-fixing spectacular, there was a need to find some stand-in
players. Pale-skinned extras, to be more precise. "You don't have to
know how to play," said my friend Ed, who called me. "But you have
to look as though you know."
Seven-thirty the next morning found us at an empty cricket stadium
on the outskirts of Delhi. The crew had been there for hours. The
director, Farah Sultan Ahmed, and her deputy, Zia Ur Rahman, outlined
the plot. Basically, he explained, the Indian team beats all the
opposition and wins. The following day, the crew was scheduled to
film the Indians beating the devilish Australians and the day after
that they would put the dastardly Pakistanis to the sword in the
final. But today was the day they beat England. Our job was to lose.
It rapidly emerged why the filmmakers were desperate to find
pale-skinned extras as there were only five of us - two Britons, an
Australian, an Afghan and a shaven-headed Russian - in the team. In
what might be taken as a sign of the progress made by Monty Panesar,
Nasser Hussain and others, the producers reckoned no one would
think it strange if the remainder of the English side was made up of
Indians. The Russian, it was whispered, had been cast as the England
captain even though he could not speak a word of English.
The truth was even more interesting. The sweet-natured man who was
leading us into battle was from Moscow but was actually Armenian. Armen
Grygoryn left Russia six months ago to fulfill a lifelong ambition to
be a Bollywood actor. "I have more than 3,000 Hindi movies at home,"
he said. "When I came to Mumbai I could not speak English or Hindi
but this is my dream."
Armen said he had already appeared in three films and was hoping World
Cupp - looking to cash-in on the success of last year's hockey drama
Chak De! India - would be his breakthrough. Unfortunately, for all
his dedication, the moment we began shooting, it emerged that Armen
didn't have the first clue how to play, or even to make it look as
though he knew how to. Even movies can only stretch reality so far.
Armen's scenes were hurried through, seemingly destined for the
cutting-room floor. The routine was the same; a bowler bowled, the
Indian batsmen played went into action and the umpire signalled a
six. On the couple of occasions when the handsome Indian captain,
played by Ravi Kapoor, accidentally got out, we had to reshoot. "India
win this game with 154 for no loss," boomed Rahman.
The morning wore on. It was mercilessly hot. Just as Indian society
is stratified by a caste system, so was life on the movie set. Ravi
for instance, as the star, had someone follow him with a parasol and
spray his face with water. The rest of us had to make do with a few
gulps of water. Heavy make-up, insisted upon by the director, melted.
But no one was complaining. For the majority of the young
wannabe-stars, appearing in World Cupp represented a step on the
path to what they hope will be successful careers. "I don't always
play sports films, but if someone offers me one I'll take it, said
Abhinav Shrivastava, a 22-year-old actor originally from Bhopal,
who was playing England's wicket-keeper.
Then it was England's turn to bat. It was still important to make it
look real. Thrust into the unlikely role of opener, I hoped to play
a couple of balls before having to give up my wicket. Concentrate,
concentrate. Camera rolling, cried the director. "Action!"
The bowler ran in. The ball zipped off the pitch. I played forward
and felt the ball clip the edge of the bat. Behind me shouts of glee
erupted from the Indian players. I stood in disbelief. Caught out,
on the very first ball? I hoped the crew would want to shoot the
scene again, perhaps to get a better angle. But then I heard the
words that told me there would no second chance, that my day as an
extra was over. After all, even in Bollywood you can't beat the real
thing. "OK," she cried. "Cut."
Independent
Monday, 6 October 2008
UK
Indian movies certainly look like fun. But what's it like to actually
appear in one? Andrew Buncombe finds out
The Indian bowler paused momentarily, gave the ball a final polish
and then began his run towards the crease. His teammates yelled
encouragement, urging him to make the crucial breakthrough. He ran in,
swung his arm and let fly. The ball pitched on the rock-hard ground
and I played forward, pushing at the hissing ball.
Bollywood plots are not known for their strict adherence to
reality. This was certainly the case when I found myself opening the
batting for the England cricket team in the 2011 World Cup. Can you
bat, the frazzled-looking assistant director had asked. "Well...,"
I began to explain. "That'll do," he replied. "Get padded up".
The Indian movie industry churns out hundreds of films every year
and almost all have one thing in common: the need for plenty of
extras. People make careers playing bit parts in various films,
perhaps without ever uttering any dialogue. When the makers of
World Cupp 2011 - the use of double letters in movie titles is a
trend - arrived in Delhi to shoot the cricketing scenes of a sport
and match-fixing spectacular, there was a need to find some stand-in
players. Pale-skinned extras, to be more precise. "You don't have to
know how to play," said my friend Ed, who called me. "But you have
to look as though you know."
Seven-thirty the next morning found us at an empty cricket stadium
on the outskirts of Delhi. The crew had been there for hours. The
director, Farah Sultan Ahmed, and her deputy, Zia Ur Rahman, outlined
the plot. Basically, he explained, the Indian team beats all the
opposition and wins. The following day, the crew was scheduled to
film the Indians beating the devilish Australians and the day after
that they would put the dastardly Pakistanis to the sword in the
final. But today was the day they beat England. Our job was to lose.
It rapidly emerged why the filmmakers were desperate to find
pale-skinned extras as there were only five of us - two Britons, an
Australian, an Afghan and a shaven-headed Russian - in the team. In
what might be taken as a sign of the progress made by Monty Panesar,
Nasser Hussain and others, the producers reckoned no one would
think it strange if the remainder of the English side was made up of
Indians. The Russian, it was whispered, had been cast as the England
captain even though he could not speak a word of English.
The truth was even more interesting. The sweet-natured man who was
leading us into battle was from Moscow but was actually Armenian. Armen
Grygoryn left Russia six months ago to fulfill a lifelong ambition to
be a Bollywood actor. "I have more than 3,000 Hindi movies at home,"
he said. "When I came to Mumbai I could not speak English or Hindi
but this is my dream."
Armen said he had already appeared in three films and was hoping World
Cupp - looking to cash-in on the success of last year's hockey drama
Chak De! India - would be his breakthrough. Unfortunately, for all
his dedication, the moment we began shooting, it emerged that Armen
didn't have the first clue how to play, or even to make it look as
though he knew how to. Even movies can only stretch reality so far.
Armen's scenes were hurried through, seemingly destined for the
cutting-room floor. The routine was the same; a bowler bowled, the
Indian batsmen played went into action and the umpire signalled a
six. On the couple of occasions when the handsome Indian captain,
played by Ravi Kapoor, accidentally got out, we had to reshoot. "India
win this game with 154 for no loss," boomed Rahman.
The morning wore on. It was mercilessly hot. Just as Indian society
is stratified by a caste system, so was life on the movie set. Ravi
for instance, as the star, had someone follow him with a parasol and
spray his face with water. The rest of us had to make do with a few
gulps of water. Heavy make-up, insisted upon by the director, melted.
But no one was complaining. For the majority of the young
wannabe-stars, appearing in World Cupp represented a step on the
path to what they hope will be successful careers. "I don't always
play sports films, but if someone offers me one I'll take it, said
Abhinav Shrivastava, a 22-year-old actor originally from Bhopal,
who was playing England's wicket-keeper.
Then it was England's turn to bat. It was still important to make it
look real. Thrust into the unlikely role of opener, I hoped to play
a couple of balls before having to give up my wicket. Concentrate,
concentrate. Camera rolling, cried the director. "Action!"
The bowler ran in. The ball zipped off the pitch. I played forward
and felt the ball clip the edge of the bat. Behind me shouts of glee
erupted from the Indian players. I stood in disbelief. Caught out,
on the very first ball? I hoped the crew would want to shoot the
scene again, perhaps to get a better angle. But then I heard the
words that told me there would no second chance, that my day as an
extra was over. After all, even in Bollywood you can't beat the real
thing. "OK," she cried. "Cut."