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Tinsel town comes home
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The middle-class, which has changed phenomenally over the last decade, is largely responsible in determining the cultural scenario. The demolition of so many cinemas in Bangalore, particularly Shanti theatre, prompts K.R. GANESH to figure out the change.
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Photo: K. Bhagya Prakash
Economics is one issue, but the demolition of Shanti theatre also signifies a middle-class that is forming its own insular coterie.
THE INDIAN film industry is the largest in the world, cranking out more than 700 films in almost a dozen languages every year. These films are watched in about 10,000 theatres by an average of 12.5 million people every day, and are exported to over 100 countries. Indian cinema, like any cultural expression, is a montage of diverse influences. And somehow, the tinsel world and its vibrant relationship with the people has fascinated me endlessly.
A few months ago, I had to go to Tata Silk Farm and I happened to pass by Shanti, one of the first theatres of South Bangalore, near South End circle junction. Incidentally, it is also the first theatre I went to.
As I passed by it, I noticed there was neither the usual hustle and bustle nor a traffic pause. The main gate was closed. The groundnut seller and seasonal fruit seller had both disappeared. Just as I wondered whom to ask, a passer-by, sensing my confusion, informed helpfully: "Didn't you know that they have closed down the theatre? How sad! Did you come all the way to watch a film?"
Memories came flooding. As I mentioned, the first film that I ever watched in a theatre was in Shanti, and it was Rajkumar's Bidugade. I must say, the blinding darkness initially so frightened me that my brother pinched me blue for behaving like a village bumpkin.
Once we became regulars, we stood in long, winding, first-day-first-show queues and walked into the theatre rather triumphantly, ticket in hand. A friend of mine once bought two tickets for himself, hoping to sell one in black. A few minutes later, he came with a black eye and bruised leg. He was beaten up by the manager of the theatre, to whom he had tried to sell the ticket.
When I went back on that road, maybe after a week, the building had been razed. Apparently, a business complex is coming up in its place. "It's difficult to run a cinema house any longer. People no longer come to the theatres. And with the kind of collection we make, we can't even pay our electricity bills," says Nagaraj who was the theatre's manager for 20 years.
Shanti came into existence in 1967 on Republic Day. The first film screened there was Rajkumar's Onde Balliya Hoogalu. Chengamaraju, the proprietor, also owned Devi in Srirampuram and Uma in Chamarajapete. The hall was built with the idea of making it central to the middle-class cinema lovers of Jayanagar, Basavanagudi, and Hanumantnagar. "For the last four to five years, we have been doing badly. But Chengamaraju kept it going because he took it as a prestige issue," adds Nagaraj.
Why is it that cinemas specially meant for Kannada films have such a dearth of audience? Bangalore's choking traffic, skyrocketing ticket prices, the addictive television... Moreover, these cinemas banked largely on women who constituted 60 per cent of its audience. Today, satellite channels hold sway over women with their innumerable "family" soaps. With television, people now have the facility to watch a film of their choice.
However, the overriding factor is that the Kannada film industry, like all others, is going through a crisis, and seems to be unable to lure people back to the theatres.
However, all these reasons seem simplistic. What is crucial to the closing down of cinema halls, and that too in predominantly middle-class localities such as Gandhibazar, Chamarajpete, Jayanagar (apparently Nanda and Uma theatre are also on the chopping block), is perhaps the emergence of a new middle-class. A middle-class that was central to most people's movements in the '70s and '80s has slowly moved away from the public arena.
The disillusioned, withdrawn middle-class no longer wants to identify itself with the community. This has not just had a direct bearing on the film industry, but on Indian political scenario itself. The middle-class has moved away from polling booths as well. Caught in the web of consumerism, there is a drastic change in its values, and it now finds solace in more tangible luxuries such as a car, an apartment, an annual trip to some foreign country, rather than taking part in a protest against another hike in petrol price or listening to a lecture on the impact of dams by Medha Patkar.
If this could be termed a change in culture, then middle-class is undoubtedly its custodian. Films themselves can speak of its audiences.
Recurrent patterns in films of an era tell us what kind of films were popular, which hero or which villain was the favourite, and what were the most endearing scenes. Films do not just preserve images, but also the attitudes of their audiences. So if the making of films and their theme and content have changed, it can be understood that the audience has changed too. So, if we are talking of a new audience, the elusive filmgoer, s/he has disappeared from the cinemas into the private space of drawing rooms.
Cultures across the world, talk of active participation to begin with, notes H.S. Raghavendra Rao, Kannada critic and thinker. "For instance, our own kolata: it was a community event. It gradually became passive participation, the doer and the viewer, and today it has further shifted to become isolation," he observes. When theatres such as Alankar and Prabhat were demolished, people were aghast.
The word went round and people talked about it. But now, when Shanti theatre is being demolished, they remain blissfully unaware.
"Years ago, Imperial theatre used to screen Bengali films as morning show. My friend Sreenivasa Raju and I would watch every film there. Even on the day before his marriage, we watched a film. It was a passion. Today there is no such thing and such a transition is true of everything else too. What about our public libraries? Except the exam-oriented college students, they are hardly visited. Community reading is outdated," HSR explains.
Incidentally, renowned Kannada writer Vyasaraya Ballal in his autobiography, talks of his small school in Udupi that had a big library. In about two years, he had read almost 200 books from Camus to Kafka. Today, the very few public libraries left in the City neither stock good books nor do they have any takers.
HSR says: "The middle-class has grown to be extremely self-centred and has isolated itself from the community, and that is a dangerous development. It is the death of idealism."
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