flickr / Nat.Media Museum
flickr / Nat.Media Museum

The other side of the screen

The curtain rises.
flickr / Nat.Media Museum
flickr / Nat.Media Museum

One of my earliest memories of watching films has less to do with the film itself and more with the anticipation of the moment when the film was to begin: when the red velvet curtains rose inch by inch and disappeared into some mysterious space above the screen; the moment when the lights dimmed and people hurried to their seats by the light of the usher's torch; when the projector began its whirr and threw a beam of mote-filled light over our heads. It was a magical anticipation, as dream-like and associative as cinema itself.

The theatres were large but the audience felt close, as if we knew each other even though we'd never met, as if we could make assumptions about each other like friends can, all because we shared for the duration of the film the womb that was the theatre.

For a long time this was the way I watched films: the late night show with my parents, the popcorn or chutney sandwiches at Sangeet Theatre in Secunderabad (or even better, 'rolls' stuck on each finger of one hand) and finally, the ride back , nearly asleep on the backseat and watching the moon follow me home.

It wasn't until I was eight or so that I had my first experience of watching a film in a setting other than a classical film theatre. My grandparents stayed in a small town called Mettur, and every Saturday there was a film screening in their neighbourhood. Sometime in the late afternoon a screen would be set up in a clearing and a table and projector would appear, but oddly enough there were no chairs, or apparent seating arrangements. Come dusk and first the children would gather, followed by the adults. They came as if for a picnic, with rugs, pillows, even blankets, certainly chairs – both the solid ones that needed two people to carry them and the foldable ones we called 'easy' chairs. Clearly, the people of Mettur came prepared to enjoy both the film and a light snooze.

The film they screened that time was The Bullet Train, and I remember wondering later how it was possible for anyone to expect to sleep through all the excitement. For me, the film will always remain memorable for the way I saw it. Not having come early enough to grab a prime spot in front of the screen, I found that the only available space was behind the screen. I was delighted with my position – I thought it was an unusual and funny place from which to watch a film, and I got the sense that I was watching not just the feature but also portions of the audience.

The rituals of viewing
That screening at Mettur taught me that audiences are by no means uniform, and are, if anything, eccentric and individual in their attitude to watching cinema. So much depends on where one watches a film: a traditional large single theatre that divided people into those in the stalls and those in the balcony seats seemed not just to expect, but actually invite different degrees of decorum for the audience. Nobody I have ever watched a film with has flung coins at the screen, but it was not unusual to hear whistles, catcalls, energetic clapping and ribald comments, especially during a popular blockbuster. This has always bothered me less than the now-familiar glow of cellphones, as people simultaneously watch films and report about them on social networks.

Other more informal settings demand different behaviours from the audience. In school, for instance, the weekly film in the auditorium was similar to the screening in Mettur – while students were strongly discouraged from bringing their pillows and blankets, they still sprawled, shifted around and whispered explanations to each other.

When screenings moved from a large auditorium to a smaller room and the VCR replaced the 16mm projector, everything changed. We lost the wonder of watching the projectionist thread the reel into the projector, the wait between reels (this was a single projector and thus no automatic changeover from one reel to the next) when everyone began to discuss the film, and the noise level rose from whispers to a hubbub that would magically be silenced once the film resumed. Instead, we fought for a clear view of the really tiny screen that was set up on the same level as us. There may have been attempts to arrange people height-wise but they didn't seem to work. Some of us came early and grabbed seats on the single bench set by a window that we opened as soon as we walked in – ventilation was nearly as important as a good view in a tiny room with a large number of people.

In classroom settings, screenings usually meant darkened windows during the daytime, and nearly always repeat screenings, often with a light on for easy note-taking. The idea that a film could and indeed must be watched more than once was a new one for me until I attended a film appreciation course run by P K Nair (ex-director of The National Film Archives of India). 

Mr. Nair used to take a standard set of films with him and travel wherever he was invited. The films never changed in all the years I attended his course: Zoo and Glass (Bert Haanstra), Big City Blues (Charles van der Linden), Happy Anniversary (Jean-Claude Carrière & Peter Etaix), Solo (Mike Hoover), 23 Skidoo (Julian Bigg), and always some Norman McLaren and/or Jiri Trnka. The second time I attended Nair's course, I thought I could easily slip out of the screenings, having already seen all the films before. He gave me an earful and sent me back in. Honestly, I can't imagine why this was a new and radical idea to me – I was already a champion re-reader of books; why did I think films were single viewing only?

In the years that followed, I grew used to a film-student way of watching films: not just in the occasional note-taking I still did, but in my not wanting to sit right next to anyone else. I didn't like to share even a row, much less an armrest or leg space. I demanded total external sensory deprivation in order to pay complete attention to the film.

Of course, that's not how people usually watch films. After all, India is a nation that worshipped the TV as a sacred object once a week during the years the Ramayana and the Mahabharata were telecast. Cinema began as, and for the most part continues to be, a communal activity. While it is true that every film has a direct, personal relationship with the individual viewer, it is also true that a film screened to many people is different from a film seen by a single person, even if viewers now share links to videos on YouTube, and the comments space replaces a real-life gathering where discussions take place. 

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