The idea, at first, was to write a series of essays about Mani Ratnam’s films. I had heard how press-shy he was, and how difficult it was to make him talk, so the thought of a book of conversations was never in my mind. But once I signed with Penguin, I had to tell Mani Ratnam that I was doing a book on his work, as we both lived in Chennai.
I messaged him. He told me to come over. I went and told him about the book. He didn’t seem too happy about it. He said, “You like cinema. I like cinema. Let’s just talk and see what happens.” I was unsure at first, but then I thought this was worth a shot. If it didn’t work out, I could always go back to my book of essays.
The initial sessions were tough; I was a little in awe of a film-maker who so completely defined my generation, and he was not used to talking so openly about his work – neither of us was interested in going into personal details. It took a while to build a comfort level, a rapport where he could come swinging at me if he felt I was being uncharitable about his work, and I could challenge a view of his if I felt he wasn’t being fully open. So, the book is about the gradual building of a relationship between the critic and film-maker, just as it is about the film-maker himself.
My first question in the first chapter is a simple one. But by the time we get to
Take Thalapathy , for instance. The story is that of Karna, and instead of Kunti setting adrift her child in a river, we have a young unwed mother placing her baby in a goods train. But to mirror the myth, Mani Ratnam and his team went searching for train tracks that curved like a river. And this, for a shot most people wouldn’t even notice.
The book, therefore, is also an injunction to take mainstream cinema more seriously, and realise that it is as valid and as back-breaking an endeavour as art cinema.