Strunk & White for filmmaking

William Strunk Jr. and E. B. White wrote in their book ‘The Elements of Style’ the following paragraph.

“Vigorous writing is concise. A sentence should contain no unnecessary words, a paragraph no
unnecessary sentences, for the same reason that a drawing should have no unnecessary lines
and a machine no unnecessary parts. This requires not that the writer make all his sentences
short, or that he avoid all detail and treat his subjects only in outline, but that every word tell.”

The lines were written by Strunk in the original book, and while writing the introduction for a later edition, White had the sense to mention them in the introduction. The ‘Elements of Style’ of course is about writing in English. But the idea expressed here is very important for filmmaking. I’d like to say it like this.

“Vigorous filmmaking is concise. A scene should contain no unnecessary shots, a sequence no
unnecessary scenes, for the same reason that a drawing should have no unnecessary lines and a
machine no unnecessary parts. This requires not that the filmmaker make all his scenes short, or
that he avoid all detail and treat his subjects only in outline, but that every shot tell.”

Of the hundreds of theories on filmmaking I find this the most fundamental and its application the hardest. It is hard mainly because it is quite difficult to determine which shot is unnecessary and which is not. In Strunk’s mind things were black or white. Either a word was important, or it wasn’t. I don’t know whether he ever considered that one word could be less important than another, and therefore its contribution though small, still be helpful. For those who live by grays and fractions, the decision-making could indeed be tough. But it is an approach I’d consider worthwhile.

Later on in the introduction, White quotes Strunk again. This time as Strunk makes his axiom a little softer, and for me, clearer.

“It is an old observation, that the best writers sometimes disregard the rules of rhetoric. When
they do so, however, the reader will usually find in the sentence some compensating merit,
attained at the cost of the violation. Unless he is certain of doing as well, he will probably do best
to follow the rules.”

Strunk wasn’t that inflexible after all. But what he does with this last paragraph is take the argument into the realm of individual preferences. And from that realm, unfortunately, the argument can never come out.

I have a feeling the book is full of such lessons, or as I like to consider them, approaches.

Calcutta

Calcutta is beautiful to the eye. Old houses with discolored walls, their shutters looking out into often-crumbling streets, street lamps out of a period film set, and colors of local political party posters effortlessly holding time within them. Fading architecture seems to challenge ideas of modern urban development. I don’t know how strong those walls are. But they live on, artistically unkempt. A huge city and a small world; with yellow and red nightlights and lovely evening breeze. It’s alive, yet dead. I see fire-crackers up in the sky; with the sounds of old buses roaring past sleeping Bengali homes. I could stay awake through day and night listening to transitions in sound. It’s a playful battle between the hot, humid envelope of air, and the cool river breeze periodically blowing it away. Layers and layers of living; bustling nonchalantly. Like in a colorful, populated dream.

One could fall in love very easily here, in the soft evening mood. I can imagine a beautiful girl laugh in a taxi down Southern Avenue. Sometimes the lusty glances under the lights of Park Street. Long conversations and long silences by a lake. What are we going to do with our lives, where are we going to go? Desires and pretences. The wind could languorously blow her black hair back. Taxies and thoughtful ice-creams at night and never going home. I want to stay in love. I never want to go home.

It’s modern and stagnant. It’s dirty, disorganized and dilapidated. And intelligent and sensitive. It has dark lanes and green streets. Aggressive, talkative people. Some would say argumentative. I wouldn’t venture that far. Everyone has an opinion. And most are worth shit. It’s complacent and cantankerous.

After the rains we climbed up to Birbal dada’s terrace. The dark sky with a few clouds left, and scattered night lights from the buildings far away. The shapes of coconut trees swaying to the nearly-cold post-rains breeze. He told me he used to sit there, watching life unfold in the busy street below, when he was younger. I told him I could sit there with a girl. Trying out the first tentative steps of love. Or silent and sad as the relationship vanished slowly into the haze of city smoke. And after everything I could return and introspect. That subtle sadness in my heart and the joy of freedom. The wind moans before a storm. At night, Ron and I walk around Lake Club, thinking of possible names for characters from a story. Thinking of the name of the story itself. And we come close to the dark lake, lights imprinted on its surface. The water surface glistens, manacled in calm. It looks like another sky.

I leave tomorrow for the hundredth time. When I return again, my eyes would have grown older. The city may have changed.

It takes time to go beyond that initial anger. Calcutta is not my home. It will never be. I don’t know where home is, or what home is. Except that when I find home, I’ll be calm. Calcutta is my parents’ home, their parents’ home, their brothers’ and sisters’ home, my cousins’ home. But to me, a beautiful city of love and discomfort. A little memory island; confusing, and wonderful.

Dawn that day...

I was walking back at about six thirty in the morning. Its a thirty minute walk. Down Arunachalam road, then Arcot road and then home. After the shoot Karm, Azad, Mohar, Himanshu and I spent the night gaining perspective. They all passed out slowly. Azad was the last one to go at about six fifteen. I shut their door behind me and quietly walked out into the soft blue morning. I searched the sky for the sun.

Dawn begins with blue. When the sun's rays have reached the sky but the golden orange sun has not yet appeared. It slowly turns to yellow and then white. I started walking when there was blue and by the time I reached home there was a faint yellow warming the air. I don't think I was walking very straight. But my mind wandered through some thoughts I have been unable to forget.

Dawn is beautiful everywhere. Especially if you have been awake the entire night. The black sky slowly finding color gladdens my heart. I remember telling Karm later; If you were in a dirty dark slum in a huge lifeless city and you saw early morning reach down from above, and heard the sounds of the world waking up to itself, your heart would dance. Maybe if you were in sterile monochromatic apartment, isolated in your urbanness, and a hint of morning light leaked in from the corner of the curtain, reminding you that you are still alive and can still feel. Maybe lovelorn and tired, your breath starved of affection, and dawn slowly lit up your sad window; tears of a new day trickling down your cheeks. Wherever you are in this wide world, dawn brings that calm understanding.

So I walked. The cold, slightly moist air spread over my skin. The leaves of trees became green and the road started filling up. I entered another day. It struck me with a simplicity I had never imagined. Their is a dawn inside you. A dormant dawn. Maybe some find it.

I reached the decrepit shack that is my current apartment building. The clanking of vessels and the aroma of sambhar fought with each other, completely ignoring my unsteady entry. I looked back at that lovely early morning that had been my companion for the last half hour. I turned my head and walked in.

delhi pt. I

I went back to Delhi after nearly eight years in the South. A four day curiosity driven visit. Cyclone Nisha was troubling Chennai then. Thought I'd return four days late to Chennai. And Rai was there in Delhi, persuading over STD.

I had forgotten how lifeless the city was. The cars on those wide roads look like hundreds of small moving boxes. Tall construction cranes drooping before the grey horizon, a flyover waiting around every corner, dry dust floating off the huge pillars. Many more will come, I could see. Many more flyovers, cars, people. Delhi will one day be so big it will take many hours to cross it. Maybe families will go for a holiday from one part of the city to another. It will be beautiful, modern and sterile.

I liked the guest house. My tastes have become simpler after staying in hostel rooms and sharing apartments with fellow dreamers. A plain guest house seems luxurious. I hope this part of me never changes. The Inter-University Accelerator Campus where the guest house lay was clean, green and empty. A haven for quiet scientists. The regular food at night tasted great; all those spices I had missed the past eight years. I ate in Nirulas in the afternoon. I remember loving it a long time ago.

Your body tells you time has passed. Your mind tells you. But you only truly know when you return to that stationary point you crossed long back. Return to your old city and find your relationship with it has vanished. Then you know a lot of time must have passed. Delhi hasn't changed as much as I have. I just returned searching for too much. There isn't that much there. My memories are that of a naïve kid. There was never that much there.

Rai, my sister, lives in Delhi. She looks like she belongs there. Or so I believe. She studies in a famous college there and has many friends. I got to meet two of them; KK and Ankan. So Rai decides to show me her world. In an auto from somewhere to Majnu Ka Tila, a Tibetan refugee colony. We ate lunch in a restaurant called Tee Dee. Momos and Chilly Beef. Majnu Ka Tila has those narrow lanes with old two to three storied buildings on both sides. The balconies seem to be falling off into the tiny space in between. I would see more of them the next day in Chandni Chowk, culturally different but architecturally similar. Tibetans everywhere, their goods lying along the lanes. I would love to shoot a film sequence in such a place. Long track shots in those lanes, tilt downs from those buildings. Maybe a character exploring that world, or running away or something. Good thing was we had a smoke after lunch.

Ankan has a sense of humor. I think Rai would agree. He kindly entertained me the whole afternoon. His jokes are of a wide range indeed. Rai asks, "What's happening in Bombay?" Ankan answers, "They are having a blast." Bombay was indeed having a blast. About ten terrorists kill 186 people over sixty hours of bloodshed. The news channels were using the opportunity to promote themselves by shouting at the politicians. The public were pretending to help. R.R. Patil declared that such things happen in big cities. Thank god it was only 186 and not more. The NSG were declared heroes. Famous people were interviewed. The news channels repeated everything about a hundred times for the benefit of those not glued to it. They declared 'Enough is enough'.

A huge complicated democracy. It is never enough.

So Ankan says they are having a blast. Rai and KK, sensitive souls, make faces. It wasn't really a joke. Rather an existentialist comment I'd say. I shift the conversation to the election. That day was Delhi election. Sheila Dixit (Congress) versus Madanlal Khurana (BJP). I still don't know who won. One of them would have. They don't vote. They don't have voter's cards. But Ankan visualizes Pranab Mukherjee sitting in a tea shop abusing the errand boy, his dhoti pulled up so he can comfortable cross his legs. Ankan wants to be a filmmaker. He should try a political satire sometime. We all should. That works better than pseudo-melodramatic media condemnation.

A very short story...

It would have been easier, had I been slightly more lenient with myself. But I was suffering. And that makes quite a bit of difference. I was throwing myself in and out of these relationships. The rational mind was completely forgotten and ignored. At one stage you believe you can’t do without something and you really can’t. So you have to make love to strangers in small rooms because you think it’s realistic. And you have to drink with someone you don’t agree with, but who’ll listen. I was wasting precious life because it was stylish. I met John and Sarika at that time. In Chennai. They found me interesting. I didn’t find them interesting. But I liked them because they listened. And I could ramble on.

Chennai was a city I loved. I loved it for the heat, the alien culture, the language which I refused to learn. I loved it for the dirt on the streets, the anti-social friends I made, the evening clouds. I loved it because I knew very few people. I was lost then.

John was 42 years old. He had a grey beard. And he was lean and fit. I don’t know whether he heard a word of what I said. But he smoked and nodded. That was enough. Sarika was 28, not very tall, not very thin, and agreed with most of what I said. I knew she was listening, because at pretty regular intervals she would ask a question. The questions were mostly useless but helped in making my speeches longer. At that time I didn’t know their relationship. Some funny arrangement. Maybe they had sex with each other. Maybe they took long silent walks and knew more of each other than I knew of myself. But I remember thinking about it.

Sarika invited me one day to their place. Maybe John knew. He wasn’t there. But there was liquor there, and that particular evening I had nothing else to do. She said something about her being pregnant and John not wanting to marry her. I was busy drinking that lousy ‘XXX’ rum. Her room had yellow light and was decorated cheaply. She was wearing black and white and smiling. I had just discovered that rum and cold water was a combination I could suffer. It was cheaper than having it with coke. And it gave me a faster high. And I could consume more rum and not throw up. I am now an alcoholic. Or very close to becoming one. But now I am old and it doesn’t matter. I feel old, wrinkled, delayed. She had a weird collection of books. On one side were thick books on medicine. On the other Sanskrit books and pulp fiction. I remember reading a little from a Sanskrit book after drinking a lot. Then she showed me something from a huge book on human anatomy. She was comfortable. Maybe she planned out the evening. Ensnare the outsider. But I remember thinking I could have loved her, had she been a little more hostile. A little stronger.

One day John hit her. I was in a half empty bus. Traveling alone to a small corner where I’d find a friend. The wind from the windows made the heat bearable. She cried over the phone. And what could I say? She suddenly realized she was troubling me. She asked me. Would I save her? After watching me sit there for fifteen minutes the bus conductor told me it was a Ladies’ seat. And for the first time in my life, knowing I was making a huge mistake, I said ok. Ok, not because I loved her. Ok why, I don’t know. I don’t know. I shifted to a Gents’ seat.

She lived with me for a couple of months. She had brought just a few clothes. But those two months my small room smelt of her perfume. She cried a few times. And she never once told me anything about herself, or about John. It made her intriguing. I didn’t lose interest in her. But I knew I would, slowly. She read out passages from magazines to me. And refused to let me play any classical music. She spoke to me. Not about important things, but about places, and people, and games she played as a little girl. She listened to what I had to say. This time without those questions in between. She judged the world, herself, and me.

At the end of two months she left. She said she had to go. I didn’t know what to say. I was disappointed. Maybe a little hurt. But she just packed her suitcase and left. And I never saw her after that. Anywhere. The smell of her perfume lingered around my room for the next few days. The memory of that smell lingered around for another month. I didn’t lose interest in her. How could I? You don’t lose interest in someone you love so deeply.

I have forced myself not to think of her reasons all these years. But I can’t anymore evade this one truth. She wanted me to say I loved her.

Question

When does a day start? How far does it go? When a man doesn't have a '9 to 5' job these questions become important.

There...

Busy bazaar lanes, glittering night lights, hundreds of sounds, they play around with her. She danced with them in my dream. Or so I felt, till I woke up in someone else's arms. Most women look pathetic when they sleep. The only time in the day when they are not self conscious. This one unfortunately did not. She had long black hair which seemed very peaceful, as it rested on the white pillow. Somehow, eyes closed, in her own private world, she looked intelligent. Which I knew her not to be. Not in the conventional sense at least. Would she be dreaming of someone else? Maybe. Would she tell me later. Probably. Would she be sorry? Yes. Was I sorry? Maybe.

Busy bazaar lanes, glittering night lights, hundreds of sounds, they play around with her. She danced with them in my dream. Hair flying everywhere like some crazed tantric. Her laugh soft inspite of all that energy. I couldn't understand things about her. She would pray with this pure sincerity. I think I first began to love her when I saw her pray. Thats something I myself never did. So while she prayed I watched her. Its funny. Her eyes were closed in prayer, in much the same way as hers are now, closed in sleep. It was like God's punishment. I will enter your life. I will enter such, you will never deny me. I will enter through her. She had that crystalline calm when she prayed. All sleep is prayer. Does she pray right now?

Busy bazaar lanes, glittering night lights... She knows I will leave soon. She is brave. I am not. There are somethings I will never forget. There are somethings which'll never forget me. She stirs. I feel enclosed and imprisoned. It was better while she slept. I walk to the door, open it, and step out into the balcony. Miles of tiny dots of light. Hello. She calls to me. I think I'll tell her my dream. And the story behind it. When a man gives out a little of himself, he just makes one more fried. I can't sleep now. Or ever. I can just soar.