Sunday I played Superman.
Ask me what I did yesterday.
Go on, just ask.
Good, knew you'd click.
To start with, Saturday night was one of those significantly alcohol-fuelled evenings that showed no signs of letting up until sunlight made us think perhaps sleep was in order. I hit the sack at some ungodly hour in the am on Sunday, only to be roused exactly 90-minutes later. Profanity replaced standard-issue hello before patient-person-on-other-end-of-phone informed that a 50 Cent press conference was beginning in little over an hour, and I had to be there, no options.
So I glugged poorly-made coffee at the Maratha Sheraton while the rapper sat in front of a bunch of uninformed journalists who asked him moronic questions like if he would try Indian cuisine. 'Well, I'll eat something,' he said justifiably, 'I'm not likely to starve myself.' Not one question about his music, ladies and gents, and I was too sleepy and apathetic to raise my hand. Not to mention I was manning a video camera at the time.
Anyway, this done I headed homeward, sat at a cyber-cafe -- home computing is currently disabled, don'tevenask -- and wrote out a script. A short film had to be made for office, I had been briefed nothing whatsoever, and work stress led to a defiant uprising seeing me stride out of office mid-day Friday saying I'd have shot a film by the time I walked in on Monday. Needless to say, Friday and Saturday were spent in pursuits of unproductivity instead of footloose auteurism. By Saturday night, a cruel film was sketchily conceived -- and narrated to a drinking buddy filmmaker who claimed to love the idea -- but not a word was put on paper, not a casting decision in place.
Back to Sunday afternoon, wherein a shooting script was readied. No dialogues, no real storyboard but the vision -- simplistic enough -- was relatively clear. Camera-check, Script-check. Oh, I needed one of those Cast things. Happenstance and cinema share a complicated, consistent relationship; let me recount a Saturnight conversation with a bright young thing I met at the olde watering hole (Zenzi, like Cheers, a place where everybody knows your name):
Me: So what do you do?
She: Nothing really, I've just moved here from New York ..[edit].. I spent two years on the New York stage
Me: Where do you live?
She: Down the road.
Me: You wanna act in my movie tomorrow?
She: Sure. We should exchange numbers.
[we do.]
She: So what's the movie about?
Me: I'm not sure yet, but come along, it'll be fun.
She: Alright, just don't spike my white wine.
More or less verbatim, that seemed relatively prophetic. So she was called over, as was Chunky, my perennial leading-man -- some of you might remember him from the NDTV cellphone film -- who was told to 'come by after lunch, we'll shoot a movie.' He didn't blink, just asked how long it'll take. Super spirit, and thus we began to roll, shooting by the seaside. Much chaos and confusion and interesting looking rushes emerged, after which the phone broke the spell again, and mentioned that I needed to go cover the 50 Cent concert, too.
I don't mind Fiddy, but I'm a Snoop man, myself. Anyway, rushed home, dumped cameras, ran to friends' bike and hurtled into the ground just as the show was starting. Wheels within wheels led to us in the VVIP lounge, running to the bar and being told the night -- a 'Smirnoff experience' -- was dry as a milkless cornflake. Perfect. Sober hip-hop. Anyway, ran into several people I knew there, meeting most of them after ages, and things were a general blast. Exhausted, I was utterly content staying in the comfy box, well away from the stage, but a certain genius director who was kind enough to converse with me at length suddenly decided we shouldn't be too far from the madding crowd. And so it was that he and I shoved our way through the masses, stood in sweat-range from an exultant Fiddy and jumped. Me and the man who made Masoom grooving to Wanksta. Ridiculous. Maybe I dreamt it.
Finally staggered out of the stadium, got lost, stood vainly in wait for a rick for a half-hour, called up a friend who was nice enough to give me a ride (and stubbornly clueless enough to get lost thrice, on the highway, bless 'er), and eventually got home and collapsed into bed.
After which insomnia struck and despite all intent, I lay awake till 5 in the am. Argh.
So, quite a long day. Strenuous, morningy, exhausting, accomplished. You can't blame me for, via hindsight, feeling kinda indefatigable today, eh?
Now, what did ya do, punk? No, seriously, am asking.
Go on, just ask.
Good, knew you'd click.
To start with, Saturday night was one of those significantly alcohol-fuelled evenings that showed no signs of letting up until sunlight made us think perhaps sleep was in order. I hit the sack at some ungodly hour in the am on Sunday, only to be roused exactly 90-minutes later. Profanity replaced standard-issue hello before patient-person-on-other-end-of-phone informed that a 50 Cent press conference was beginning in little over an hour, and I had to be there, no options.
So I glugged poorly-made coffee at the Maratha Sheraton while the rapper sat in front of a bunch of uninformed journalists who asked him moronic questions like if he would try Indian cuisine. 'Well, I'll eat something,' he said justifiably, 'I'm not likely to starve myself.' Not one question about his music, ladies and gents, and I was too sleepy and apathetic to raise my hand. Not to mention I was manning a video camera at the time.
Anyway, this done I headed homeward, sat at a cyber-cafe -- home computing is currently disabled, don'tevenask -- and wrote out a script. A short film had to be made for office, I had been briefed nothing whatsoever, and work stress led to a defiant uprising seeing me stride out of office mid-day Friday saying I'd have shot a film by the time I walked in on Monday. Needless to say, Friday and Saturday were spent in pursuits of unproductivity instead of footloose auteurism. By Saturday night, a cruel film was sketchily conceived -- and narrated to a drinking buddy filmmaker who claimed to love the idea -- but not a word was put on paper, not a casting decision in place.
Back to Sunday afternoon, wherein a shooting script was readied. No dialogues, no real storyboard but the vision -- simplistic enough -- was relatively clear. Camera-check, Script-check. Oh, I needed one of those Cast things. Happenstance and cinema share a complicated, consistent relationship; let me recount a Saturnight conversation with a bright young thing I met at the olde watering hole (Zenzi, like Cheers, a place where everybody knows your name):
Me: So what do you do?
She: Nothing really, I've just moved here from New York ..[edit].. I spent two years on the New York stage
Me: Where do you live?
She: Down the road.
Me: You wanna act in my movie tomorrow?
She: Sure. We should exchange numbers.
[we do.]
She: So what's the movie about?
Me: I'm not sure yet, but come along, it'll be fun.
She: Alright, just don't spike my white wine.
More or less verbatim, that seemed relatively prophetic. So she was called over, as was Chunky, my perennial leading-man -- some of you might remember him from the NDTV cellphone film -- who was told to 'come by after lunch, we'll shoot a movie.' He didn't blink, just asked how long it'll take. Super spirit, and thus we began to roll, shooting by the seaside. Much chaos and confusion and interesting looking rushes emerged, after which the phone broke the spell again, and mentioned that I needed to go cover the 50 Cent concert, too.
I don't mind Fiddy, but I'm a Snoop man, myself. Anyway, rushed home, dumped cameras, ran to friends' bike and hurtled into the ground just as the show was starting. Wheels within wheels led to us in the VVIP lounge, running to the bar and being told the night -- a 'Smirnoff experience' -- was dry as a milkless cornflake. Perfect. Sober hip-hop. Anyway, ran into several people I knew there, meeting most of them after ages, and things were a general blast. Exhausted, I was utterly content staying in the comfy box, well away from the stage, but a certain genius director who was kind enough to converse with me at length suddenly decided we shouldn't be too far from the madding crowd. And so it was that he and I shoved our way through the masses, stood in sweat-range from an exultant Fiddy and jumped. Me and the man who made Masoom grooving to Wanksta. Ridiculous. Maybe I dreamt it.
Finally staggered out of the stadium, got lost, stood vainly in wait for a rick for a half-hour, called up a friend who was nice enough to give me a ride (and stubbornly clueless enough to get lost thrice, on the highway, bless 'er), and eventually got home and collapsed into bed.
After which insomnia struck and despite all intent, I lay awake till 5 in the am. Argh.
So, quite a long day. Strenuous, morningy, exhausting, accomplished. You can't blame me for, via hindsight, feeling kinda indefatigable today, eh?
Now, what did ya do, punk? No, seriously, am asking.