Love in a hot climate by Rachel Shelley (British Actress in Film Lagaan)
Lagaan is the biggest-budget Bollywood movie ever, the first to shoot entirely on location and the first to use a large number of British actors - among them the female lead Rachel Shelley. She chronicles four months of disease, tears and passion in the desert of western India
Friday May11, 2001
The Guardian
Arrival
Bhuj is a dusty, walled fort town in a remote corner of north-western India. With plenty of soldiers. Pakistan is only 70km away, and given the delicate nature of relations between Islamabad and New Delhi, the Indian government regards the area as "highly sensitive". So all foreigners are required to register with the police. In big letters, my little registration card reads: "Please note that landscape photography is prohibited." Interesting. Did anyone tell them we have come here to shoot a film? My assignment is to spend four months here as the lead actress in Bollywood's most expensive film ever. It's a period romantic comedy called Lagaan, set in a poor and drought-stricken community in central India in 1893. It tells the story of a dastardly British army captain who challenges the locals to a cricket match, the loser of which will pay the state's land tax - or lagaan. The Indians are led by a heroic villager, but this being 1893, they are ignorant of the game's rules. Luckily, the captain's visiting younger sister, Elizabeth (me), is inspired to teach them covertly out of sympathy, and later, out of love for the heroic youth. And there are songs. Our star, producer and muse is the Bollywood legend Aamir Khan.
Moving in
People are treating me as though I'm already famous, just because they know I'm about to do an Aamir Khan film. Giving autographs is new for me. "Just write what you normally write," Satya, a producer, told me, as though it's something I do every day. The cast and crew are all billeted on the top four floors of Bhuj's only seven-storey apartment block. Residents who aren't working on the film won't share the lift with me. I am told that the shoot was already three days behind schedule even before I arrived - and that the production is horribly disorganised and the food is inedible. So far, then, it's really no different from any other film I've been in.
Day 1 (on set)
During my first hour of filming, the sweat began to collect in puddles in and around my corset. Then came the sandblasting as the wind whipped up, playing havoc with my hat and make-up. In between having to spit, extract eye bogies and stand like a teapot (one hand on hat because the hat pins haven't arrived; one holding my parasol aloft), I/we completed the scheduled scenes to everyone's satisfaction. The Indian actors celebrated the completion of the first shot with a prayer. Lagaan breaks many of the rules of Indian film-making, and the industry is watching, waiting for things to go wrong. These are the Bollywood firsts: shooting synch-sound (ie, recording the sound simultaneously with the pictures); shooting entirely on location; using British actors speaking Hindi lines; and shooting in one continuous schedule - no one will be slipping off to complete the other 15 films they have on the go, as is usual. Aamir told the cast and crew they would not be hired unless they cleared their schedules and committed, and commit they did. Our director of photography (DP) is India's award-winning best, Anil Mehta. Our costume designer, Bhanu Athaiya, won an Oscar for Gandhi. Even the smaller roles are filled by revered Indian actors.
Day 3
It shouldn't happen on any film set. A whole afternoon's work has to be re-shot. Why? Because we were finishing a scene today that we started yesterday and yesterday I was wearing earrings. Today I wasn't. Whose fault is that? Continuity? It doesn't exist. Wardrobe? Yes, but they are really tailors, not dressers. They've actually asked me if the back of my skirt looks OK - like I can see it from where my head is. Ever since I arrived I've been asking who would be helping me dress, as corsets and period costume all seem to fasten at the back. The wardrobe staff are all older men and wouldn't help even if I wanted them to. Pina, the chief hairdresser, has volunteered but says she will not be held responsible for anything that goes wrong. She has enough to do and cannot keep checking me on set. So what happens? We lose an entire afternoon's shooting. I talk to the Indian actors who tell me they are keeping their own continuity because no one else will. Although that's not the official line, it's what always ends up happening in Bollywood, even for the leading lady. Continuity has never been a responsibility I have faced before. I have enough of my own work to be thinking about. I am told not to worry because it is totally not my fault and of course a dresser will be found immediately. I know it's not my fault! But we still have to re-shoot and that pisses me off! Back at Sahajanand Towers, I want to drown my sorrows in a large vodka ginger ale or dairy-free ice cream or an enormous bowl of pasta or a hot bath. None of these is available. I may take up smoking again instead.
Day 11
The reason for not writing in more than a week is not just because some of the other Brits have arrived and I suddenly have something that resembles a social life (Scrabble), but because I have been working like a dog. Tuesday morning was by far the lowlight. Awful. After all my requests for a wardrobe assistant, no one had arrived and as I prepared for a new scene, the nightmares in the changing room began. There were still no hatpins, which are essential. My undergarments had been washed but were still wet. No one could find the right shoes and the period leather laces hadn't been cut. The assistant directors (ADs) were bullying me into leaving for set when I wasn't fully dressed. I was supposed to be doing my biggest Hindi scene and instead was stressing over wardrobe! No one even attempted to apologise, placate or accept responsibility, so when I found the temporarily appointed wardrobe man, Sanjay, I demanded answers. OK - I shouted at him. Not for more than about 30 seconds, and then I immediately apologised, but I shouted. Maybe now, I thought, someone would get the message. Sure enough, solutions miraculously became available. That night, I was summoned to Aamir Khan's room where, to my acute shame, I was sanctimoniously reprimanded. "Everyone was completely shocked," said Aamir, because they all thought I was "such a nice, reasonable girl", and "that sort of behaviour just doesn't happen on my film sets". To my huge surprise, I began to cry. This made him feel terrible, which I'm sorry to admit actually made me feel a lot better. But still, I hadn't managed to justify or defend myself as well as I could. What I did manage to tell Aamir was that I found his dual role as producer and actor very hard to cope with as I couldn't handle being reprimanded by him in the evening and then having to tell him the next day in Hindi that I love him. I guess he is the star and it is his shebang and I will just have to deal with it. After six days of pre-dawn calls and 14-hour working days, I was ready for my Saturday night. I nearly cried again when I heard that my fellow Brit actors were all about to spend the evening watching the Leeds-Liverpool match live on telly. I wandered off to find the "party" in the DP's room. Oh my God. Ghazaals are traditional Urdu rhymes set to music, helplessly romantic, stunningly poetic, even in translation. One of the cast, Ragou, is a trained ghazaal singer, and it was spine-tingling to listen to him. Add to this the fact that Apoo, our assistant director, who until this evening had barely spoken to or even smiled at me, took it upon himself to tumble his translations into my left ear. Apoo is probably the most attractive man on the entire film and to have his sweet voice pour warm poetry over me under the bewitching wails of Ragou's succulent voice . . . Well, after 15 minutes I felt sure he was about to propose something to me. But when I returned from the bathroom, my place had been snuck into by Clementina in production. Although the evening continued in grand style, when I got into bed I could still hear his words: "How can I throw the ashes of your thoughts in the water, their fire will turn the water into flames . . ."
Day 18
The working week was characterised by the public study of the declining state of my complexion. When I arrived in India, there wasn't a blemish in sight; in the last two weeks, my face has erupted. Spots are never nice, but now their progress isbeing tracked by the make-up artist, the DP, the chief gaffer, the lighting man, the director, the lead actor and the entire AD department - and then will be magnified to fill the screen. To be fair, all these people are so good at their respective jobs that I doubt anything will be very obvious in the finished product. I just wish I could keep my spot examination within the confines and privacy of my own bathroom. Another Saturday night, another ghazaal concert, this time a professional performance organised by production on the roof of Sahajanand Towers. I tried to squeeze in next to Apoo but in the end I had to share his translations with everyone else. I have heard that he is involved with his assistant. They are curiously cagey about their whole affair. People took turns to sing near the end of the show. I stumbled through a rather croaky rendition of Norwegian Wood, then hid in a corner for a while.
Day 34
Another nightmare. Having been told I had my first whole day off, I was enjoying doing nothing when I was called on set. No one could tell me what for. On arrival I was told out of the blue that I was doing an enormously emotional scene, my second biggest Hindi one. And I had a brand new Hindi line. As the production team knows well, Hindi lines take me a couple of days to become fluid with. So I got cross and upset. Their excuse was that they only made the decision at 1am and didn't want to wake me. So why didn't I know about it till I got on set at midday? I attempted to learn the new words - none of which were familiar. And it would have to be the line before I say "I love you" in Hindi, wouldn't it? It wasn't going in. No surprise really: I gave up my millennium holiday to learn Hindi - if I could learn Hindi lines in an hour I wouldn't have bothered. Imagine the scenario: young tearful Victorian gal attempting to plead her innocence to sceptical handsome Indian villager is forced to confess the unrequited and doomed love she feels for him. Emotion fills her flushed and tearful face as her eyes meet those of her beloved:
Elizabeth: Mayray bahee nay mujhay dhoka dhaka toomhay giruftar kuraya. [My brother when to me deception gave your arrest did.]
Bhuvan: Kyookee kah? [Because what?]
Elizabeth: (over-wrought) Kyookee . . . [Because . . .]
Aamir steps aside briefly to reveal a small and very badly written cue board. Our gal reads it once, and then again, because it's all just too unsettling and quite a tough line . . .
Elizabeth: Mayray bahee ko yay maloom ho gaya ta key . . . [My brother of this found out past tense that . . .]
Aamir steps back into my eye line for me to deliver the rest of the original script . . .
Elizabeth: May toomsay pyar kurnay lugee hoo. Ha, Bhuvan, may toomsay pyar kurnay lugee hoo. [I've fallen in love with you. Yes, Bhuvan, I've fallen in love with you.]
Filming is so often like this. Last- minute changes wipe out months of preparation. Our director, Ash, was very happy so I had to accept it. But I could have been much better.
Day 45
This week and last have been long and hard. We are filming the grand finale, a three-day cricket match, and all those not on the pitch are spectators in the British pavilion, ie we are background. So background that we are not processed through hair and make-up. So background that the Raj is played by a stand-in chosen for his dissimilarity, and one of the British majors has been allowed to go home for a few days. In fact, so background are we that on Thursday, when the "creative team" decided to return unexpectedly to day one and all day-one costumes were found being smashed to pieces on a rock somewhere (ie were in the wash), they decided it didn't really matter what we were wearing. So we wore day-two clothes instead. Everyone is losing it slightly. Possibly out of sheer boredom I contracted a violent dose of gastroenteritis on Friday morning and was sent home at lunch. Even though I felt quite normal again by evening, Apoo told me not to come in today (Saturday) because my absence can be obscured by a parasol. In his words, "It's good to be friends with the first AD." Still, finding my casual dispensability rather unnerving, I have decided to re-read my script and brush up on my character this afternoon. These last 10 days I have almost forgotten the plot.
Day 52
We are still filming the cricket match. Everyone is getting delirious. I have been sitting with Jeremy Child, another Britisher, for three weeks now, in the same position on the same raffia chair, in 38-degree heat, pretending to be engrossed in a game we can't even see. Some of the unluckier extras are sitting in the sun and sunstroke has taken its toll. I am about to crack.
Day 54
Today I did crack. But thankfully I cracked along with everyone else under the guise of Holi, the Indian festival of colour which celebrates the spring equinox, and traditionally everyone drinks bang lassi and throws paint at one another. As soon as "wrap" was called, all hell broke loose. I had come equipped with a 2ft-long water pistol and a bucket full of balloons that Harri, my unofficial assistant, had been dutifully filling with pink paint for me all day. Immediately I was out of costume I stepped out, thinking I could take on the world. Within 20 seconds, Apoo was upon me and so was the entire bucket of pink paint, balloons and all. I ended up in the trough of water prepared specially for the celebration. Of course, all this spilt water went into the dry cracked earth, creating one enormous mud pool. And then we all went into the mud pool. We were even provided with small amounts of alcohol that evening by the caterers. I wish every day was Holi.
Day 64
So now I am on drugs. After two days of low-grade gastroenteritis, I couldn't get to sleep because the composer, AR Rahman, who is about to work with Andrew Lloyd Webber on his new musical, is in the next room and can only work at night. And it seems he can only work very, very loud. Then my puking and poohing became more severe. Doctor Rao was called. In my delirious state I began to think I might never get better. I took the antibiotics, slept a little and managed to stay upright throughout the evening's work.
Day 68
It's 2:40pm and I have just woken up after a week of night shoots at Mandvi Palace, 90 minutes south of Bhuj. Though Mandvi is lush with trees and crops, the state of Gujarat is suffering from severe drought, and cattle are dying by the side of the road. It's difficult to accept, but there is water if you have the money. We had water to waste at Holi, and there is water enough for the fountains at the palace. Someone has organised a whip-round for the local farmers. At the palace, it's cool, calm, controllable, intimate and dust-free. We even get ahead of schedule. The only problem for me was the first scene of my song/fantasy. I'm taken into the ballroom where they are all set up to shoot Aamir (who is now dressed in British officer uniform) and I do a swift, romantic waltz. Except it's not just a quick waltz; they start throwing in multiple spins and head turns and telling me to "spot" (whatever that is) and basically behave like the trained dancer I am not. I did not expect to have to rehearse - self-consciously and badly - in front of the entire cast and crew in full costume. It takes me 40 minutes to get it right, but thankfully Aamir isn't much better. The dance director rattled me immediately, shouting and telling me how easy it is. I am out of my depth - all Indian actresses are classically trained dancers too. When Harri delivers a sweetly reassuring note and a handful of rose petals from Apoo just before we shoot, I think, sod it, pretend you're messing about in your living room with a friend. Hey presto, everything then goes smoothly. I have completed my first Bollywood dance sequence.
Day 78
My "song" continues to make me laugh. I twirl in circles on the beach in my nightwear, skip around pillars and fountains and dance with scarves on a high, blustery turret. They've even got me kissing roses and clasping doves (pigeons, really) and declaring "Yes, I'm in looove!" before releasing them to the heavens. It's a shame they are so lazy they plummet to the ground when I let them go. All of this is done to music playback which is loud enough to drown out my dreadful singing. It is all over just as I am really beginning to love it. My song was the only opportunity I got to wear sensual and sexy clothes and make-up. The best part for me was dressing up as a local Indian village girl and playing coy with Aamir at twilight. With my midriff showing and adorned with jewellery, I've decided I make a cool peasant. Trouble is, I am now way too skinny to be considered at all sexy to the average male Indian filmgoer. Apoo is, it seems, no average Indian filmgoer. He has taken to inviting me for brunch at about 3pm when everyone wakes up. I am the last to leave and sometimes the only one to arrive, and the party always goes with a romantic swing. This last week it was not unusual to see us rushing on to the bus, slightly flushed, just before departure time.
Day 83
My back has been itchy. Then it felt a bit sore. When I could no longer lean back or lie down, I reckoned it was time to see Dr Rao, who prescribed more antibiotics and diagnosed me as having "multiple boils and baby lesions"! He told me to ensure my corset is washed frequently, so this afternoon I mentioned this to the wardrobe guys, who don't speak English. Please wash this many times. No, no wash madam. Yes, please wash. And please call me Rachel. OK, OK. So you will wash it tonight? No, madam, cannot wash. OK, I'll wash it then. No no, Bhanuji say corset no washing. Why? Bhanuji say. Never. What, ever?! Never madam. You're telling me you have never washed this corset? Never madam, we never wash corset. It get damage, madam. Bhanuji say. I'll give them sodding damage. Three months in the same gritty, sweaty, dusty, tight corset and never once washed? No amount of talcum powder was ever going to combat that.
Day 97
I have found myself another pastime to while away the small hours of a night-time shoot: trying to work out once and for all if Apoo is lying to me when he tells me he is no longer involved with his assistant. Wondering if he was telling me the truth when he told me they had split up months ago, and if it really was just coincidence that he and I got together only when she had supposedly "left the film". She has now returned earlier than planned and my dates have been extended and, oh my God - are we overlapping in too many ways to be tasteful or hygienic? This is not the most cheerful way to pass the time but it has suddenly become the most important.
The end
My work is all complete. Apoo called a wrap on me, and Ash presented me with a cricket bat that had been signed by everyone in the cast and crew. I looked about me a little dewy-eyed at all the smiling faces that have filled my life these past four months. I hugged Ash and felt a rush of nostalgia, sadness, relief, jubilation, achievement. Then Apoo appeared to tell me he had personally organised for everyone to sign my cricket bat. I turned away. His fiancée and I (yes, fiancée) spoke properly for the first time the other night, all night, and through her tears she taught me a new Hindi word not dissimilar to another good old English c-word: chute . As I stood there in my own little web of feelings, I suddenly found myself engulfed by a throng of extras, all calling for photos and autographs. Ash and Apoo managed to extract themselves from this affray, and suddenly I was cut off from the people who meant something to me and surrounded by excited strangers. As I signed and posed for snaps, I saw the cast and crew lose interest and begin to wander to the catering area. I wanted to shout "Don't you understand? I've finished!" For everyone else, though, today was just another day of shooting. The 100th. Wow.
Lagaan premieres in Bombay on June 15, and will be released in the UK later this year. Photographs of the making of the film will be on sale at Alphabet, Beak Street, London W1, from June 26. Proceeds go to the Gujarat Earthquake Fund.
Source: http://www.guardian.co.uk/friday_review/story/0,3605,488660,00.html
Friday May11, 2001
The Guardian
Arrival
Bhuj is a dusty, walled fort town in a remote corner of north-western India. With plenty of soldiers. Pakistan is only 70km away, and given the delicate nature of relations between Islamabad and New Delhi, the Indian government regards the area as "highly sensitive". So all foreigners are required to register with the police. In big letters, my little registration card reads: "Please note that landscape photography is prohibited." Interesting. Did anyone tell them we have come here to shoot a film? My assignment is to spend four months here as the lead actress in Bollywood's most expensive film ever. It's a period romantic comedy called Lagaan, set in a poor and drought-stricken community in central India in 1893. It tells the story of a dastardly British army captain who challenges the locals to a cricket match, the loser of which will pay the state's land tax - or lagaan. The Indians are led by a heroic villager, but this being 1893, they are ignorant of the game's rules. Luckily, the captain's visiting younger sister, Elizabeth (me), is inspired to teach them covertly out of sympathy, and later, out of love for the heroic youth. And there are songs. Our star, producer and muse is the Bollywood legend Aamir Khan.
Moving in
People are treating me as though I'm already famous, just because they know I'm about to do an Aamir Khan film. Giving autographs is new for me. "Just write what you normally write," Satya, a producer, told me, as though it's something I do every day. The cast and crew are all billeted on the top four floors of Bhuj's only seven-storey apartment block. Residents who aren't working on the film won't share the lift with me. I am told that the shoot was already three days behind schedule even before I arrived - and that the production is horribly disorganised and the food is inedible. So far, then, it's really no different from any other film I've been in.
Day 1 (on set)
During my first hour of filming, the sweat began to collect in puddles in and around my corset. Then came the sandblasting as the wind whipped up, playing havoc with my hat and make-up. In between having to spit, extract eye bogies and stand like a teapot (one hand on hat because the hat pins haven't arrived; one holding my parasol aloft), I/we completed the scheduled scenes to everyone's satisfaction. The Indian actors celebrated the completion of the first shot with a prayer. Lagaan breaks many of the rules of Indian film-making, and the industry is watching, waiting for things to go wrong. These are the Bollywood firsts: shooting synch-sound (ie, recording the sound simultaneously with the pictures); shooting entirely on location; using British actors speaking Hindi lines; and shooting in one continuous schedule - no one will be slipping off to complete the other 15 films they have on the go, as is usual. Aamir told the cast and crew they would not be hired unless they cleared their schedules and committed, and commit they did. Our director of photography (DP) is India's award-winning best, Anil Mehta. Our costume designer, Bhanu Athaiya, won an Oscar for Gandhi. Even the smaller roles are filled by revered Indian actors.
Day 3
It shouldn't happen on any film set. A whole afternoon's work has to be re-shot. Why? Because we were finishing a scene today that we started yesterday and yesterday I was wearing earrings. Today I wasn't. Whose fault is that? Continuity? It doesn't exist. Wardrobe? Yes, but they are really tailors, not dressers. They've actually asked me if the back of my skirt looks OK - like I can see it from where my head is. Ever since I arrived I've been asking who would be helping me dress, as corsets and period costume all seem to fasten at the back. The wardrobe staff are all older men and wouldn't help even if I wanted them to. Pina, the chief hairdresser, has volunteered but says she will not be held responsible for anything that goes wrong. She has enough to do and cannot keep checking me on set. So what happens? We lose an entire afternoon's shooting. I talk to the Indian actors who tell me they are keeping their own continuity because no one else will. Although that's not the official line, it's what always ends up happening in Bollywood, even for the leading lady. Continuity has never been a responsibility I have faced before. I have enough of my own work to be thinking about. I am told not to worry because it is totally not my fault and of course a dresser will be found immediately. I know it's not my fault! But we still have to re-shoot and that pisses me off! Back at Sahajanand Towers, I want to drown my sorrows in a large vodka ginger ale or dairy-free ice cream or an enormous bowl of pasta or a hot bath. None of these is available. I may take up smoking again instead.
Day 11
The reason for not writing in more than a week is not just because some of the other Brits have arrived and I suddenly have something that resembles a social life (Scrabble), but because I have been working like a dog. Tuesday morning was by far the lowlight. Awful. After all my requests for a wardrobe assistant, no one had arrived and as I prepared for a new scene, the nightmares in the changing room began. There were still no hatpins, which are essential. My undergarments had been washed but were still wet. No one could find the right shoes and the period leather laces hadn't been cut. The assistant directors (ADs) were bullying me into leaving for set when I wasn't fully dressed. I was supposed to be doing my biggest Hindi scene and instead was stressing over wardrobe! No one even attempted to apologise, placate or accept responsibility, so when I found the temporarily appointed wardrobe man, Sanjay, I demanded answers. OK - I shouted at him. Not for more than about 30 seconds, and then I immediately apologised, but I shouted. Maybe now, I thought, someone would get the message. Sure enough, solutions miraculously became available. That night, I was summoned to Aamir Khan's room where, to my acute shame, I was sanctimoniously reprimanded. "Everyone was completely shocked," said Aamir, because they all thought I was "such a nice, reasonable girl", and "that sort of behaviour just doesn't happen on my film sets". To my huge surprise, I began to cry. This made him feel terrible, which I'm sorry to admit actually made me feel a lot better. But still, I hadn't managed to justify or defend myself as well as I could. What I did manage to tell Aamir was that I found his dual role as producer and actor very hard to cope with as I couldn't handle being reprimanded by him in the evening and then having to tell him the next day in Hindi that I love him. I guess he is the star and it is his shebang and I will just have to deal with it. After six days of pre-dawn calls and 14-hour working days, I was ready for my Saturday night. I nearly cried again when I heard that my fellow Brit actors were all about to spend the evening watching the Leeds-Liverpool match live on telly. I wandered off to find the "party" in the DP's room. Oh my God. Ghazaals are traditional Urdu rhymes set to music, helplessly romantic, stunningly poetic, even in translation. One of the cast, Ragou, is a trained ghazaal singer, and it was spine-tingling to listen to him. Add to this the fact that Apoo, our assistant director, who until this evening had barely spoken to or even smiled at me, took it upon himself to tumble his translations into my left ear. Apoo is probably the most attractive man on the entire film and to have his sweet voice pour warm poetry over me under the bewitching wails of Ragou's succulent voice . . . Well, after 15 minutes I felt sure he was about to propose something to me. But when I returned from the bathroom, my place had been snuck into by Clementina in production. Although the evening continued in grand style, when I got into bed I could still hear his words: "How can I throw the ashes of your thoughts in the water, their fire will turn the water into flames . . ."
Day 18
The working week was characterised by the public study of the declining state of my complexion. When I arrived in India, there wasn't a blemish in sight; in the last two weeks, my face has erupted. Spots are never nice, but now their progress isbeing tracked by the make-up artist, the DP, the chief gaffer, the lighting man, the director, the lead actor and the entire AD department - and then will be magnified to fill the screen. To be fair, all these people are so good at their respective jobs that I doubt anything will be very obvious in the finished product. I just wish I could keep my spot examination within the confines and privacy of my own bathroom. Another Saturday night, another ghazaal concert, this time a professional performance organised by production on the roof of Sahajanand Towers. I tried to squeeze in next to Apoo but in the end I had to share his translations with everyone else. I have heard that he is involved with his assistant. They are curiously cagey about their whole affair. People took turns to sing near the end of the show. I stumbled through a rather croaky rendition of Norwegian Wood, then hid in a corner for a while.
Day 34
Another nightmare. Having been told I had my first whole day off, I was enjoying doing nothing when I was called on set. No one could tell me what for. On arrival I was told out of the blue that I was doing an enormously emotional scene, my second biggest Hindi one. And I had a brand new Hindi line. As the production team knows well, Hindi lines take me a couple of days to become fluid with. So I got cross and upset. Their excuse was that they only made the decision at 1am and didn't want to wake me. So why didn't I know about it till I got on set at midday? I attempted to learn the new words - none of which were familiar. And it would have to be the line before I say "I love you" in Hindi, wouldn't it? It wasn't going in. No surprise really: I gave up my millennium holiday to learn Hindi - if I could learn Hindi lines in an hour I wouldn't have bothered. Imagine the scenario: young tearful Victorian gal attempting to plead her innocence to sceptical handsome Indian villager is forced to confess the unrequited and doomed love she feels for him. Emotion fills her flushed and tearful face as her eyes meet those of her beloved:
Elizabeth: Mayray bahee nay mujhay dhoka dhaka toomhay giruftar kuraya. [My brother when to me deception gave your arrest did.]
Bhuvan: Kyookee kah? [Because what?]
Elizabeth: (over-wrought) Kyookee . . . [Because . . .]
Aamir steps aside briefly to reveal a small and very badly written cue board. Our gal reads it once, and then again, because it's all just too unsettling and quite a tough line . . .
Elizabeth: Mayray bahee ko yay maloom ho gaya ta key . . . [My brother of this found out past tense that . . .]
Aamir steps back into my eye line for me to deliver the rest of the original script . . .
Elizabeth: May toomsay pyar kurnay lugee hoo. Ha, Bhuvan, may toomsay pyar kurnay lugee hoo. [I've fallen in love with you. Yes, Bhuvan, I've fallen in love with you.]
Filming is so often like this. Last- minute changes wipe out months of preparation. Our director, Ash, was very happy so I had to accept it. But I could have been much better.
Day 45
This week and last have been long and hard. We are filming the grand finale, a three-day cricket match, and all those not on the pitch are spectators in the British pavilion, ie we are background. So background that we are not processed through hair and make-up. So background that the Raj is played by a stand-in chosen for his dissimilarity, and one of the British majors has been allowed to go home for a few days. In fact, so background are we that on Thursday, when the "creative team" decided to return unexpectedly to day one and all day-one costumes were found being smashed to pieces on a rock somewhere (ie were in the wash), they decided it didn't really matter what we were wearing. So we wore day-two clothes instead. Everyone is losing it slightly. Possibly out of sheer boredom I contracted a violent dose of gastroenteritis on Friday morning and was sent home at lunch. Even though I felt quite normal again by evening, Apoo told me not to come in today (Saturday) because my absence can be obscured by a parasol. In his words, "It's good to be friends with the first AD." Still, finding my casual dispensability rather unnerving, I have decided to re-read my script and brush up on my character this afternoon. These last 10 days I have almost forgotten the plot.
Day 52
We are still filming the cricket match. Everyone is getting delirious. I have been sitting with Jeremy Child, another Britisher, for three weeks now, in the same position on the same raffia chair, in 38-degree heat, pretending to be engrossed in a game we can't even see. Some of the unluckier extras are sitting in the sun and sunstroke has taken its toll. I am about to crack.
Day 54
Today I did crack. But thankfully I cracked along with everyone else under the guise of Holi, the Indian festival of colour which celebrates the spring equinox, and traditionally everyone drinks bang lassi and throws paint at one another. As soon as "wrap" was called, all hell broke loose. I had come equipped with a 2ft-long water pistol and a bucket full of balloons that Harri, my unofficial assistant, had been dutifully filling with pink paint for me all day. Immediately I was out of costume I stepped out, thinking I could take on the world. Within 20 seconds, Apoo was upon me and so was the entire bucket of pink paint, balloons and all. I ended up in the trough of water prepared specially for the celebration. Of course, all this spilt water went into the dry cracked earth, creating one enormous mud pool. And then we all went into the mud pool. We were even provided with small amounts of alcohol that evening by the caterers. I wish every day was Holi.
Day 64
So now I am on drugs. After two days of low-grade gastroenteritis, I couldn't get to sleep because the composer, AR Rahman, who is about to work with Andrew Lloyd Webber on his new musical, is in the next room and can only work at night. And it seems he can only work very, very loud. Then my puking and poohing became more severe. Doctor Rao was called. In my delirious state I began to think I might never get better. I took the antibiotics, slept a little and managed to stay upright throughout the evening's work.
Day 68
It's 2:40pm and I have just woken up after a week of night shoots at Mandvi Palace, 90 minutes south of Bhuj. Though Mandvi is lush with trees and crops, the state of Gujarat is suffering from severe drought, and cattle are dying by the side of the road. It's difficult to accept, but there is water if you have the money. We had water to waste at Holi, and there is water enough for the fountains at the palace. Someone has organised a whip-round for the local farmers. At the palace, it's cool, calm, controllable, intimate and dust-free. We even get ahead of schedule. The only problem for me was the first scene of my song/fantasy. I'm taken into the ballroom where they are all set up to shoot Aamir (who is now dressed in British officer uniform) and I do a swift, romantic waltz. Except it's not just a quick waltz; they start throwing in multiple spins and head turns and telling me to "spot" (whatever that is) and basically behave like the trained dancer I am not. I did not expect to have to rehearse - self-consciously and badly - in front of the entire cast and crew in full costume. It takes me 40 minutes to get it right, but thankfully Aamir isn't much better. The dance director rattled me immediately, shouting and telling me how easy it is. I am out of my depth - all Indian actresses are classically trained dancers too. When Harri delivers a sweetly reassuring note and a handful of rose petals from Apoo just before we shoot, I think, sod it, pretend you're messing about in your living room with a friend. Hey presto, everything then goes smoothly. I have completed my first Bollywood dance sequence.
Day 78
My "song" continues to make me laugh. I twirl in circles on the beach in my nightwear, skip around pillars and fountains and dance with scarves on a high, blustery turret. They've even got me kissing roses and clasping doves (pigeons, really) and declaring "Yes, I'm in looove!" before releasing them to the heavens. It's a shame they are so lazy they plummet to the ground when I let them go. All of this is done to music playback which is loud enough to drown out my dreadful singing. It is all over just as I am really beginning to love it. My song was the only opportunity I got to wear sensual and sexy clothes and make-up. The best part for me was dressing up as a local Indian village girl and playing coy with Aamir at twilight. With my midriff showing and adorned with jewellery, I've decided I make a cool peasant. Trouble is, I am now way too skinny to be considered at all sexy to the average male Indian filmgoer. Apoo is, it seems, no average Indian filmgoer. He has taken to inviting me for brunch at about 3pm when everyone wakes up. I am the last to leave and sometimes the only one to arrive, and the party always goes with a romantic swing. This last week it was not unusual to see us rushing on to the bus, slightly flushed, just before departure time.
Day 83
My back has been itchy. Then it felt a bit sore. When I could no longer lean back or lie down, I reckoned it was time to see Dr Rao, who prescribed more antibiotics and diagnosed me as having "multiple boils and baby lesions"! He told me to ensure my corset is washed frequently, so this afternoon I mentioned this to the wardrobe guys, who don't speak English. Please wash this many times. No, no wash madam. Yes, please wash. And please call me Rachel. OK, OK. So you will wash it tonight? No, madam, cannot wash. OK, I'll wash it then. No no, Bhanuji say corset no washing. Why? Bhanuji say. Never. What, ever?! Never madam. You're telling me you have never washed this corset? Never madam, we never wash corset. It get damage, madam. Bhanuji say. I'll give them sodding damage. Three months in the same gritty, sweaty, dusty, tight corset and never once washed? No amount of talcum powder was ever going to combat that.
Day 97
I have found myself another pastime to while away the small hours of a night-time shoot: trying to work out once and for all if Apoo is lying to me when he tells me he is no longer involved with his assistant. Wondering if he was telling me the truth when he told me they had split up months ago, and if it really was just coincidence that he and I got together only when she had supposedly "left the film". She has now returned earlier than planned and my dates have been extended and, oh my God - are we overlapping in too many ways to be tasteful or hygienic? This is not the most cheerful way to pass the time but it has suddenly become the most important.
The end
My work is all complete. Apoo called a wrap on me, and Ash presented me with a cricket bat that had been signed by everyone in the cast and crew. I looked about me a little dewy-eyed at all the smiling faces that have filled my life these past four months. I hugged Ash and felt a rush of nostalgia, sadness, relief, jubilation, achievement. Then Apoo appeared to tell me he had personally organised for everyone to sign my cricket bat. I turned away. His fiancée and I (yes, fiancée) spoke properly for the first time the other night, all night, and through her tears she taught me a new Hindi word not dissimilar to another good old English c-word: chute . As I stood there in my own little web of feelings, I suddenly found myself engulfed by a throng of extras, all calling for photos and autographs. Ash and Apoo managed to extract themselves from this affray, and suddenly I was cut off from the people who meant something to me and surrounded by excited strangers. As I signed and posed for snaps, I saw the cast and crew lose interest and begin to wander to the catering area. I wanted to shout "Don't you understand? I've finished!" For everyone else, though, today was just another day of shooting. The 100th. Wow.
Lagaan premieres in Bombay on June 15, and will be released in the UK later this year. Photographs of the making of the film will be on sale at Alphabet, Beak Street, London W1, from June 26. Proceeds go to the Gujarat Earthquake Fund.
Source: http://www.guardian.co.uk/friday_review/story/0,3605,488660,00.html
posted by Ashaye at 4:49 PM
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