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comment interview The
villain Despicably
yours
comment “If critics say
your work stinks it’s because they want it to stink and they can make it
stink by scaring you into conformity with their comfortable little
standards. Standards so low that they can no longer be considered
“dangerous” but set in place in their compartmental understandings.” Jack Kerouac’s
indictment of critics is entertaining and it resonates deeply. The critic walks a lonely
tightrope — hated by the writers whose works he evaluates and by the
readers who would like to judge the merit of a book themselves without any
pedantic know-it- all spewing forth academic jargon which no one understands
anyway. F.R Leavis was the
much-discussed critic of the day when I was in university. Hating him was
easy, with his view that the public cannot be relied upon to judge the merit
of good art; that it was up to the critic to ‘educate’ it into realising
what was and was not art. He was abstruse and supercilious. “You
philistines,” he seemed to say, “you who live in the gutter of myopic
opinion and flawed judgment; rise and I shall show ye the light.” Unfortunately, with the
current state of literary criticism in Pakistan, I find myself a little
distressed in harboring feelings of sympathy for Mr. Leavis. In the world of
sales and best-seller lists, the distinction between literature and
potboilers is being blurred. It is up to the critics to help the public
distinguish between the two. Kerouauc’s objection
seems to be towards reviewers, even if he does use the word ‘critic’.
The two are not the same thing, though their roles are often confused. We
have very few critics talking about Pakistani writing, especially in
English, who are popularly read. We do have an over-abundance of reviewers
who are chosen not for the quality of their argument but for the fluency of
their written English; and sometimes not even that. There is a vacuum of
perceptive readers (as many editors of magazines have bemoaned to me in
person and on email) and the few who are able to deliver a cogent analysis
of a new book without giving too much plot away become ‘experts’ due to
the sheer quantity of their writing. A few excellent reviewers
do exist. They, however, cannot be relied upon as the sole arbiters of the
merits of a book. For they must write under a deadline for a magazine, often
within a stringent word limit. They write about whether a book is worth
buying, how it stands among the writer’s other works, and their assessment
is coloured by strong strokes of personal opinion. The scope of a reviewer,
therefore, is small and his purpose more relevant and immediate. This is as
it should be. The job of critics
includes, but goes beyond, analysing style and content and subjective
analysis. They spend more time placing a book in the context of its genre:
you cannot judge a horror story from the standards of science fiction, for
example. They go further by looking at a book impersonally from the lens of
history, to see whether it fulfils certain aesthetic principles and is in
line with a particular set of trends or philosophic principles as have
historically emerged, shaped by cultural, political and sociological
factors. Thus, a critic sees an
individual work as part of a larger tradition. While a critic cannot tell
us, in definite terms, whether a book is good or bad, he or she can provide
a more informed framework from which readers and reviewers can operate. It is natural that readers
will look to reviewers to find out if a book is any good at all. They are
more accessible and their articles are easier to read. The critic, who once
played the bridge between the reader and the public, has lost that role
mostly due to the fact that he writes to address a small circle of
‘experts’, mostly within his own group, and not to the public, which he
considers ‘ignorant’. What is needed is a body of writers writing new,
accessible, criticism; using new technologies including the internet to open
up new avenues for exploration. Every intelligent writer/blogger
is not a critic — individual writers are arbitrary in their opinions,
which can be unpredictable (but wholly valid nonetheless). They cannot
fulfill the critical role of judging a book impersonally. Their
understandings are ‘compartmental’ and therefore, limited to their
experience. But where do these critics
come from? My hope lies in our universities — in our departments of
English; the ones which are established and the ones that are being
established as we speak. From these can emerge not only creative writers but
also a body of critics who set up certain standards to which contemporary
writing can be compared. Sorely needed is a comparative study of literatures
in other languages, especially Urdu, to help students judge the merits of
modern writing as compared to what was written in the past. I hope that universities
seize upon the times that we are in — at the cusp of old tradition and new
publications. They must cultivate the spirit of questioning, of curiosity,
of critical inquiry when it comes to contemporary writing. To maintain this
curiosity, they must refrain from the cult of the public intellectual whose
opinions, if blindly followed, result in the atrophy of unbiased inquiry. To
distinguish between the pedant and an able, trustworthy, critic is
absolutely imperative to the cause of criticism. I do realise that my
notion of the ‘ideal’ critic, impartial, insightful and
non-condescending, someone who sees a work of art in a larger context, is
idealistic. But it does give one something to aspire to. There are many
valuable questions that just aren’t considered in sufficient depth:
questions such like — whether Pakistani writing in English is a breach
from or continuum of our tradition of Urdu writing; whether writers are
producing art or ‘kitsch’; whether the writing has integrity, whether it
is ‘Pakistani’ enough and should it even be constrained by artificial
limitations such as geographical boundaries; or where our identity really
comes from. These are important
discussions to have. Shazaf Fatima Haider is
the author of “How It Happened”, a novel that has won considerable
critical acclaim
interview The News on
Sunday: In your installations at galleries like Canvas, Zahoor ul Akhlaq,
Grey Noise as well as at Mention Residency, Lahore and Dubai Art Fair, you
have been bringing animals, such as donkeys, cockerel, birds — living or
replicas in various materials — into the gallery space. Can you share your
fascination with animals in terms of your art? Ehsan ul Haq: The history
of animals is slightly longer in my work. When I was a student in 2007, in
my video work ‘9 to 5’, I added a bird in a cage hanging on top of a
cycle, which did not seem significant at that time. Later, I used a lot of
ready-made objects in my work; and whenever I go to a city I see a number of
things and imagine them in a gallery — changing their context. Along with
things, one encounters human beings and animals and wonders how can they be
made different or altered in an exhibition space. I chose a donkey for my
installation ‘Systems of Organisation’ at the Zahoor ul Akhlaq Gallery,
Lahore, and then a rooster at the Mention Residency, which was shown again
at Canvas Gallery Karachi along with a work with fluttering finches in a
cage-like tree. However, I don’t see much difference between objects,
birds and even humans as elements of art. For me, all these are signs of
something else. TNS: But in your work, do
the animals figure as they are or do they have a symbolic presence and
meaning? EH: In my work, animals
can be perceived on two levels. They function as animals and they can be
read as human beings, since we conceive everything in the human context. But
more than that, in each of my work they are almost substituting life,
turmoil and experience we have as humans. In that sense, I don’t see my
work as different from the historic art of Mesopotamia and other, later
civilizations, in which the animals assumed human characteristics,
especially in the fables of Kalila wa Dimna, Aesop’s Tales as well as the
animation of Disney. TNS: In your view,
everything is a material for making art but you have not employed your own
species — man — as an object of art? EH: Actually I started
with that; in my video ‘9to 5’ in which a man (myself) is cycling round
the clock. So everything that is created by God I accept as my source
material (thankfully). TNS: But your decision to
put roosters, finches and donkeys in your art works led to a number of
controversies, ranging from the nature of art to the rights of animals. How
do you feel about this? EH: I m aware of this and
I recall reading a review of my work in which a debate was narrated on my
putting a rooster in an installation; ironically the whole argument was held
on a dinner table where many dishes prepared out of chicken, fish and mutton
were served. I am now thinking to include human beings in my installations
— like common labourers — and perhaps these works will settle for ever
the questions about free will, rights and benefits of ‘props’ if you
want to call humans, animals, plants in this way! Because I know there are
men hired from roadsides as living sculptures on payment of a certain amount
of money. It would be interesting then to share the views and reactions of
people who are concerned about a donkey standing in a gallery or a rooster
tied in a room. TNS: But don’t you think
that the too much focus on animals takes away from the real content of the
work? EH: I am concerned about
the multiplicity of meaning in art. So after the initial shock, viewers are
bound to locate other readings of the work, a phenomenon that interests me
more than the first encounter. TNS: So what is the work
about in which animals appear as inevitable parts? EH: You can see them as
metaphors for human beings who destroy, create, change and modify to
situations. The work can be about a man’s relationship to his
surroundings, questions on his existence and the truth of his nature. TNS: So can we assume that
the works with animals are essentially about human beings? EH: Certainly it is about
humans; because if you know art and its history, the whole art is about
mankind regardless of whether mice or mosquitos are used, because it is the
humans who are the recipients. In my work, through animals, I try to
question the validity of dogmas and beliefs — in art and life. TNS: Another extraordinary
aspect of your work is its open form or its being in the process and not yet
finished. Why is that? EH: Because I don’t have
answers. Not that I don’t want to arrive at conclusions but, in the course
of art, it is all about search which includes queries about truth, faith,
fixation and conformism. So the format of art is also about the structure of
thought that participates in a set of inquiring about the truth. Art, in my
opinion, does not provide answers; it leads to questions and more questions
through the ages. TNS: Talking about humans
as props in your art, one hardly sees the creator in his creations? EH: It is like the city
which keeps on changing and expanding without the presence of a
town-planner. This is a phenomenon which reminds us of the concept of God
that He is seen in His creation, but not seen directly. Humans have His
attributes, too, to a lesser level. TNS: With your work
inviting a heap of reactions from all walks of life, do you believe that
works of art still have something to communicate to their audience, or are
they confined to an art elite? EH: It depends upon the
nature of audience because, at some places, we come across enlightened
viewers, whereas at others it is the limited crowd, mainly artists, their
wives, friends and acquaintances. But, on another note, art has always been
exclusive, for example the art of Impressionists which is so popular in the
museum-goers now was a limited form of expression during its time, often
humiliated by the critics and general public. TNS: What difference do
you see between art and life? EH: I think art has it own
aura, its own world, quite different from the world in which we live. It is
a blend of the actual and the fantasy. It is not the skill, craft or imagery
that makes a work Art, but it is how the artist perceives it to be art. And,
in my case how the spectators receive it as art.
The villain Pran who died at
the age of 93 must be one of the last persons living who had first hand
experience of the films from 1940s onwards. The very fact that he was able
to survive for so long, almost sixty years spoke for his immense talent and
the ability to adapt this talent to the changing taste of the film-viewing
audience. If one looks at the
spectrum of the roles that he did, it becomes clear that he survived because
of his great versatility. Starting his career doing bit roles in Lahore, he
graduated to playing the lead in Khandaan opposite another rising singing
star Noor Jehan in the 1940s. He then switched to playing the villain in a
period that spanned over two decades. After another makeover, he was
accepted in character/ comic roles and there, too, he played and acted to
the best of his ability that also met with the audience’s approval. Usually, tinsel town which
shines bright on the outside is quite a dark and cruel place inside because
it only worships success and totally shuns failure. It is all assessed with
just one criterion — success at the box office. The quality of the film
does not really matter, even trash that does well at the box office has many
takers, and the others are totally dismissed, or just tolerated in the niche
category and owned by a few snooty critics. Pran was able to survive the
cut-throat competition and was part of many a team that did amazing things
on screen and won the hearts of the audiences as well. He acting range was vast
and could satisfy both the man sitting on the front seat in a cinema hall
and those who dip their pen in the poison ready to lash at the fantasy song/
dance popular format of the Indian films especially those made in Bombay
(now Mumbai). He started his career
after Ashok Kumar but before Dilip Kumar, Raj Kapoor and Dev Anand, the
three stars that defined popular cinema in post independence India, and
while they had exhausted themselves Pran was still busy matching his talent
with the likes of Dharmendra, Manoj Kumar, Rajesh Khanna, Amitabh Bachchan
and Rishi Kapoor, almost two generations junior to him. Pran started his showbiz
jaunt from Lahore and he was cast in a bit role in Yamla Jat, then in
Chaudhry and Khazanchi before he appeared as a hero in Khandan opposite a
young Noor Jehan. One can imagine him as a young man desperate to get into
films. He must have gone to the studios thousands of time and wanted to see
those who mattered. The film industry in the subcontinent is so unstructured
that most of the people who make it good either come from families that
monopolise the performing arts or just strike gold through sheer accident.
Since Pran did not come from a family of actors or singers, his being picked
for a film must have been a case of pure chance.
It also makes a good story
when the talent of an actor or a singer is discovered by accident. The
stories that float about the talent being discovered by chance, in most
cases, are not true but they may be true in the case of Pran. He was a good
student and may have wanted to pursue some other career but his interest in
photography took him to see Wali Muhammed Wali who was instrumental in
introducing him to the world of celluloid. Pran acted in 22 films
from 1942–46 in Lahore of which 18 were released by 1947. While his films
from 1944–47 were all made in undivided India,
Taraash and Khanabadosh both co-starring Manorama were released only
in Pakistan after partition. He left Lahore and arrived in Bombay and helped
by writer Sadat Hasan Manto and actor Shayam, got a role in Shahid Latif’s
Ziddi starring Dev Anand and Kamini Kaushal. The movie launched Pran’s
career in Bombay. Many Pakistani actors have
emulated their Indian counterparts as many Indians have emulated the
Hollywood stars. In Pakistan, Pran became such a cult figure that he was
emulated by the arch villain in the Pakistani films Aslam Pervaiz. It goes
to the credit of Pran because usually heroes and heroines are copied or
imitated and here he was imitated by a good actor, Aslam Pervaiz. The latter
too had a reasonably good run, first as a hero and then a relatively longer
stretch as a villain. Usually various characters
are typecast — the heroes, the heroines and above all the villains. Pran
had the ability to go along with the preconceived image of a villain that
the audiences had but he was also able to make the villain a more rounded
character who had many shades of grey and was not totally blanketed in black
and white. He was never an anti-hero but played the role of the bad guy not
always reviled and hated. The villain too had his weaker moments and could
act out of sheer goodness and not always predictably driven by evil
intention. He was also able to create villainous types from the characters
that inhabit this society. It was always the villain
of the subcontinent that he played and created a stock character out of it.
It was not derived from types created by foreign cinema especially
Hollywood. Pran could also play comic
roles with plenty of finesse. He made a great transition from the
treacherous villain to a benign comedian who was at his wits end to conduct
the everyday affairs of the world. He won nearly all the
awards that the country or the film world had to offer including the Padma
Bhushan, Dadasahib Phalke Award, Filmfare Awards and Bengal Film Journalists
Association Awards many times over. CNN’s Top 25 Asian
Actors of all Times and scores of awards by other organisations that seek to
honour people who contribute to public life.
Despicably
yours “We need a
witness to our lives. There’s a billion people on the planet. What does
any one life really mean?” says Susan Sarandon in the 2004 romantic comedy
Shall We Dance. Though the movie is best described as lacklustre, this
dialogue effectively summarises the basic need of every individual. It is
what we aspire to achieve throughout our lives — whether through our
attempts to create original content or achieve a level of recognition that
will, ultimately, outlive us. Even the desire for
progeny is based on leaving a lingering mark in the world after our death
— some sort of evidence that we existed. The longing for fame and
recognition makes people look for ways to connect with large-scale
audiences. Till quite recently, artists were bound to rely solely on
channels of mass distribution such as record labels, publishing houses,
television channels and newspapers. The Internet has now fundamentally
changed this dynamic by increasing the power of the individual. Gone are the
days of big corporations monopolising the channels of communication between
artists and public. The artists are now capable of creating and distributing
their product via the web. The overall influence of
this freedom on the quality of the message and its production is another
debate altogether. In the offline world, free
market balances the demand of a product based on factors such as its cost,
availability and quality. But in the online world what triggers mass
consumption of a video creating temporary or permanent celebrities is not a
phenomenon as predictable or linear as that in the offline market. The innate nature of the
online videos, their brevity and multimediality, helps them go viral. But,
considering the overwhelming volume of videos uploaded every day, 100 hours
of videos are currently being uploaded on YouTube every minute, the question
remains why do some videos go viral while others are doomed for Internet
Siberia after a short span of viewing within a small group. In a Ted talk in 2012,
trends manager at YouTube, Kevin Allocca, cited the unexpected quality of
the content as a main factor of videos going viral on YouTube. It certainly
seems the case for the videos from Pakistan that have generated a lot of
nationwide interest, whether they are of an unsuspecting Zohair Toru (of
“garmi mein kharab” fame) or Chand Nawab or, more recently, the
deliberate creative processes of Taher Shah. The unexpected quality of the
videos surprises the watchers igniting an emotional response. This shift
from a neutral state to that of a positive or negative response — whether
pity, ridicule, incredulity or, far less common, appreciation — encourages
the users to share it with their online community creating a domino effect. This is the reason the
audition videos of contestants on talent shows are a particular viewer
favourite. Millions of people have watched as Susan Boyle transforms from a
middle-aged, shabbily dressed no-body into a star right in front of their
eyes. The video allows people to experience a “rags to riches” story in
under three minutes. It generates emotions by collective reaffirmation of
faith in fairytales where life can change in one instance. Allocca refers to another
characteristic inherent in videos going viral; the participation it
generates. As opposed to the passive consumption of old media, the new media
users respond and interact with it. Thus memes are generated and parodies
created, and by sharing this material people feel a part of the bigger
creative process. Internet and social media
have fundamentally changed the content creator consumer relationship. But
there is a dark underbelly of this trend. Many videos that have gone viral,
especially in Pakistan, have done so on a wave of negative criticism and
contempt. Whether it’s Toru, Shah, or Meera, we as a people are more prone
to ensuring everyone in our circle also watches the videos, allowing a
communal exercise in derision. It makes us feel better about who we are
since no matter what struggles we might face in life, or what failures pile
on the proverbial back of our past, we can feel vaguely content through
experiencing moral superiority over those stupid enough to not know any
better. That’s why Taher
Shah’s nonsensical music video has arguably generated more feedback than
Beygairat Brigade’s socio-political satire “Alu Anday” or their
brilliant follow-up “Dhinak Dhinak”. It’s the same reason Meera’s
English faux pas will always be shared more than Osman Khalid Butt’s
comedy videos on YouTube. In fairness, Internet
generally and social media sites specifically, have given unprecedented
freedom to people to share their artistic creations. It has given space to
Beghairat Brigade to satirise the military’s role in the country —a feat
unthinkable even today. And since the biggest quality of the web is its
democratising and equalising factor, it has also allowed equal space to the
Taher Shahs, Justin Biebers and Rebecca Blacks (of It’s Friday fame) of
this world. Ultimately the culture of
internet celebrities, whether they produce informational content like
Michelle Phan and her lifestyle blog, or videos with no purpose but to
ignite some sort of feeling/reaction inside us, is broadly what cultural
historian Daniel Boorstin called a “human pseudo-event”. This culture
epitomises the celebrities “being a hollow manifestation of our own
hollowness”. We respond to these “celebrities” through affinity or
derision. Either way, this reaction
is fundamentally geared towards making us feel better about our lives. This
is why our collective response is a reflection of not so much as the nature
of the videos we watch, but what resides within us.
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