One evening forty hears ago
James Ivory and I sat in a coffee shop, the Right Bank
on Madison Avenue in New York, and discussed the idea of
making
Indian-themed films for an international audience. Recently
I was told that a plaque would be erected on the site to
mark the place where Merchant Ivory partnership began.
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The
Big Three, James Ivory, Ruth Prawer Jhabvala,
and Ismail Merchant
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It occurred to me that a whole
generation of film audiences have grown up since that time
knowing Merchant Ivory only for the period adaptations with
which we are now associated. And yet, long before we made
a name for ourselves in that particular niche, we had spent
almost 20 years exploring and refining our craft on films
based in present-day India. Overshadowed and perhaps eclipsed
by our recent successes, those Indian films established both
the themes and the style of our entire body of work.
India is my country: the place
which ignited my passion for film, and where my adventures
as a filmmaker started.
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I can remember the exact moment
when I knew that I wanted to spend my life in the world of
the movies. I was 13 years old and had been invited by Nimmi,
one of the upcoming stars of Bombay film industry, to accompany
her to the premiere of her first film, Barsaat.
As we drove toward the cinema
in her green Cadillac convertible - quite an impressive car
in India at that time - a shower of marigolds began to rain
down on us. It seemed so magical - like the movies themselves
- that I can remember thinking, "if this is what the
film world is, I want to be a part of it." From that
moment, my father's dreams for me to become a doctor or a
lawyer were doomed.
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Shortly
after Ismail moved
to New York in 1958
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I left Bombay for New York
on August 11, 1958, taking the boat from Bombay to Genoa,
then the train to London, where I would spend a few days
with my friend Karim before flying to New York.
Disillusion set in within of
my arrival in New York. My home was a dingy room in the sixteenth
floor of the Martinique Hotel in Herald Square, an area whose
streets were not so much paved with gold as with inebriate
bums clutching their bottles of cheap liquor. The chances
of bumping into Doris Day or Rock Hudson as I walked around
the neighborhood suddenly seemed very remote. I had been
lured to New York by the make-believe world of the movies,
and had been terribly let down. "What have I come to?" I
asked myself. "What kind of a places is this?"
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The idea for my first feature
film had been brewing for some time. It was to be an almost
autobiographical, but fictionalized, story of an Indian coming
to Hollywood to make movies. All I need was a writer - and
money. I approached Isobel Lennart, a highly regarded screenwriter
at MGM, who was sympathetic to the idea of writing something
for me. During our conversation she mentioned that she had
just read a wonderful book called The Householder by
Ruth Pawer Jhabvala, which she suggested I should consider
filming. "Hollywood would never make it," I remember
her saying, "but you should." Even then, Ruth had
admirers among Hollywood's literary community.
I bought a copy of the book
and read it, and then made a note in my diary that it would
be my first film in India.
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Ismail
at home in London with one of his legendary
meals
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Saeed (Jaffrey) told me that
I should see The Sword and the Flute, a documentary
on Indian miniature painting made by a very special American
from Oregon called James Ivory, so he invited me to a screening
at India House.
The subject of Indian miniature
painting was one that I knew very little about, and I found
the film completely absorbing and moving. The idea of using
the history of this medium to explore historical events,
life and spiritually was both original and complex, and Jim's
intelligent script and striking choice of music by Ravi Shankar
and Ali Akbar Khan made this a very compelling work.
After the screening we were
introduced, and I invited him for coffee. I was intrigued
that a thirty-three-year-old from Oregon knew so much about
India, and I was interested to know more about this American
who had such an empathy with the culture of my country. We
went to a coffeehouse called the Right Bank on Madison Avenue
at Sixty-six Street. On this point we both agree, but from
here on our accounts of what happened next diverge considerably.
I remember listening attentively
to Jim, an attractive, aquiline-featured man, as he talked
about his film. He is a quiet, unassuming person, and he
needed gentle prodding to volunteer information about himself
and his work.
Jim, on the other hand, insists
that as soon as we arrived at the coffeehouse, I left him
and went to make phone calls, and then spent the whole evening
running between our table and the phone booth to call financiers
and other important people. At one point, according to Jim,
I even borrowed a dime from him because I had run out of
change for the phone. I don't think so, especially because
I was trying to entice Jim, to come to India and work with
me. We will probably never resolve this, but what is beyond
dispute is that Merchant Ivory Productions was born on that
late April night in 1961.
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In 1973, Tony Korner (a friend
of mine from New York) and I had been in India gathering
the bulk of material for a documentary about India's royal
families that we had been planning since 1971. While we were
in Jodhpur, I asked Ruth and Jim to join us. Jodhpur contains
a wealth of historic treasures, not least of which is Umaid
Bhawan Palace, the last of the great Indian palaces to be
built. It now functions as a hotel, albeit in a very discreet
way, with an impressive guest list that has included many
distinguished names, from Jaqueline Onasis to Peter O'Toole.
Bapji, the present maharajah of Jodhpur, retains one wing
if the palace as his personal residence, and it was there
that Ruth, Jim and I were summoned to join him, his family,
their English friend, Douglas, for dinner one night during
our stay.
While we were enjoying this
great Rajashani feast, Bapji's illegitimate brother, Tutu,
suddenly burst into the dining room armed with a huge ceremonial
sword he slashed wildly at us. He lunged at Bapji with it,
yelling incomprehensible threats as he tried to slice off
Bapji's head. Bapji's great-great aunt, Baiji, rose from
her seat, and Tutu immediately turned his sword on her. "If
you move" yelled Tutu "this sword will slice on
your head too." Hemlata (Bapji's wife) threw herself
in front of Bapji, screaming at Tutu that it would have to
kill her first. Bapji's mother, who had been showing us some
rare family jewels, seemed more concerned about the priceless
diamonds that had scattered across the floor. The servants,
anticipating a bloodbath, all disappeared in a flash while
we were left to the mercy of a madman.
We knew that Tutu was slightly
deranged and that he bore a bitter resentment toward Bapji,
who was a legitimate son, but we never expected anything
like a violent attack. We were paralyzed with surprise and
horror. Jim and I could do nothing but stare bug-eyed at
Tutu's thrashing sword, wondering if it would strike us.
It was Ruth, slight, diminutive Ruth, who finally took Tutu
on. "How dare you come in like this." She screamed
at him. "Get out at once!" Well, of course he didn't.
So Ruth started calling for the servants to come and take
him away, which they eventually did, leaving us severely
shaken.
Much later, we heard that Tutu
had been beheaded and his body chopped to pieces by the local
mafia - a brutal end to an ongoing family feud by ancient
methods that sometimes resurface in Rajasthan.
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