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sounding off Resul Pookutty is a master sound designer, sound editor and mixer. The first Asian to win an Academy Award in a technical category for Slumdog Millionaire, Resul has carved a niche for himself in a little over a decade. Beginning his career with the 1997 film Private Detective: Two Plus Two Plus One, directed by Rajat Kapoor, he went on to do outstanding work in Bollywood films like Black, Musafir, Zinda, Traffic Signal, Gandhi, My Father, Saawariya, Dus Kahaniyaan, Ghajini, Blue, Ra.One and other language films like Endhiran (Robot), Nanban 3 and Pahazssi Raja, etc. His recent work in Hollywood includes John Madden’s The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel. He is currently immersed in several projects in India and abroad, namely English Vinglish, Chittagong, Gandhi of the Month and European films like Voyage Sans Retour (France) and Liv & Ingmar (Sweden). Resul was awarded the Padma shri for his outstanding contribution to Indian cinema in 2009. In the same year, he also received an honorary DLitt from Kalady Sree Sankaracharya University of Sanskrit.

Baiju Natarajan (N. Baiju) studied Malayalam language and literature at the Oriental Research Institute, University of Madras. He has published a volume of poetry in Malayalam, Akam: 49 Kavitakal (2001), and edited Cities of Kerala, Actually Small Towns (2008), a book on present-day life in nine major urban centres of Kerala. He also works as a consultant and researcher for generating autobiographical narratives for print. He lives in Bangalore and Kochi.

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First published by Penguin Books India 2012 Copyright © Resul Pookutty 2012 All rights reserved 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 The views and opinions expressed in the book are the author’s own and the facts as reported by him which have been verified to the extent possible, and the publishers are not in any way liable for the same. ISBN 9780143067702 Typeset in Adobe Garamond by Inosoft Systems, Noida

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. www.penguin.co.in

To Umma and Bappa

Contents

Prologue: Lights! Camera! Sound!

1

Part 1: Dreams and Memories

1. Family Snapshots 2. School Days . . . and Beyond 3. The Love of Animals, the Lure of Cinema

17 37 59

Part 2: Pune and Mumbai

1. New Journeys 2. The Magical World of FTII 3. Crumbling Convictions, Threshold Times 4. Life in Mumbai

71 96 116 128

Part 3: Triumphs and Tragedies

1. Building a Sound Archive 2. First Film, First Car 3. My Parents’ Demise 4. Medical Misadventures: Pain and Gain 5. Tying the Knot 6. Working with Amitabh Bachchan: From Boom to Black

149 155 164 183 204 226

Part 4: Sound Convictions

1. The Art of Crafting Sound 2. The Challenge of Visualizing Sound 3. The Unsung Heroes of Cinema 4. Organized Chaos: The Dynamics of the Indian Film Industry

239 253 275 295

Part 5: Hollywood Calling

1. Danny Boyle and the Slumdog Experience 2. Three Prestigious Nominations 3. On the Awards Trail: From BAFTA to CAS 4. Oscar Glory

319 349 361 375

Epilogue: Some Final Thoughts

393

Acknowledgements

403

Filmography

406

Prologue: Lights! Camera! Sound!

I

will kill him! It was my moment of glory, but this was the constant refrain playing in a loop in my mind. Let me explain. As a humble cinema worker, I had reached the pinnacle of success, having just received an Oscar in the Technicolor American twilight of 22 February 2009. Moreover, this had come in the wake of other laurels: the famed BAFTA (British Academy of Film and Television Arts) award and the prestigious CAS (Cinema Audio Society) award which would be the dream of any sound engineer. But that evening I felt a different thrill, holding up the goldencoloured metallic Oscar statuette—weighing all of eight and a half pounds and measuring thirteen and a half inches in length, beautifully designed eighty years ago by an Irish American, Austin Cedric Gibbons. Slumdog Millionaire had put me on the map, as it were, and my acceptance speech was selected as one of the most unforgettable speeches of that evening. 1

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From that day forth, cameras always swarmed around me; great men and women squeezed my hands; excited youngsters scratched and pinched my person. The media relentlessly sought my opinion on everything—from what it was like working with director Danny Boyle to what I felt about prevalent issues—in the midst of huge crowds. But no one bothered to take me aside and ask me what exactly was going on in my mind at that very moment. So I will tell you now. While I was brimming with indescribable joy, pride and love, I could not get this one thought out of my mind: I will kill him! If you ever want to know anything about slavery, my life is there in front of you. Anybody would obviously want to put an end to such misery. So don’t be shocked if one of these days you happen to read somewhere that Resul has beaten someone to death. The man I secretly plan to finish off is none other than my manager, whose sole mission was to put me through an endless series of gruelling and inhuman drills. Somehow I seem to have become his slave. I can only do what he says; I must follow his instructions: go meet this guy, go to this place. He is Kallu alias Baiju Kalluvila. I have known him almost my entire life. We were buddies in our village, Vilakkupara— and now he rules my life (this is perhaps his revenge for our endless squabbling in childhood). He’d gotten me into scrapes almost as often as he’d rescue me from them. And I couldn’t help thinking that now, if he did anything to ruin this special moment, that would indeed be the end of him.

prologue

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My Umma had an endearing description for him: the buck-toothed son of a fraud. Baiju claims Umma never addressed him in such colourful terms. He would banter rather innocently and loudly: ‘Maybe she described me like that to you all in my absence. But why should she refer to me like that anyway? Remember what she used to say to Bappa? Bappa had a dim view of my political alliance with her; when I would hang around her as her general supporter, by ironing her clothes or helping her in some house chore, he would say, “Oh, look at this guy, hanging on her tail all day  .  .  . Why are you wasting your time?” And this only made her angry. “Why don’t you keep your advice for your own sons?” she would tell him. So basically, I was her true supporter in most matters.’ Yes, Baiju has a point. Anyway, Umma is not alive any more. So I can’t contest my manager’s claims.

* As luck would have it, I spared his life. Of course, that hasn’t stopped me from feeling murderous again, my rage exploding in front of Baiju’s calm countenance. But I depend on him as much as I deplore him—something he knows too well. I often get calls like these all the time: ‘Saar, we’re calling from Kanhangad—what time will you reach here tomorrow?’ And I would have no idea what this was all about. But the caller would not be discouraged: ‘We are calling from AIR. What time will you reach our studio?’

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‘Oh! Am I coming to your studio?’ ‘Of course! It’s all been agreed. You are not coming?’ The thing is, I have no clue about my comings or goings. The one who knows all is the manager! Baiju’s new technique is to hide the ticket from me. I beg, ‘What time are we going, please?’ ‘Oh. Nine.’ ‘Where? Air India or the other one?’ ‘Other one.’ I am the kind who dreads even the thought of missing a flight. So, I would be there at the airport by eight thirty or eight forty-five for a ten o’clock flight. I would tele-check-in and wait. He, on the other hand, would arrive ten minutes before departure. I would be terribly tense. But what to do? He is my manager, I can’t leave him behind; and of course, I can’t do anything without him. Once, when I landed at the Mumbai airport after receiving the BAFTA award, Baiju instructed me not to exit the airport until he signalled that I could! He had this tremendous advantage of not knowing anything about the Mumbai airport. If you ask him to wait for you at terminal one, he would promptly wait for you at terminal two. So while I was getting impatient inside the airport, awaiting for the go-ahead from him, he was busy waiting at the wrong terminal with the press and all that jazz! He had done a similar thing when I was returning after the Oscars. Apparently, he had organized a surprise; but if he had told me about it, I would have done a better job of surprising myself! I had called him from Frankfurt. He said, ‘Come, all is

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organized.’ I repeatedly demanded to know the nature of the arrangements he claimed to have made. I begged, ‘Please don’t make a mess like you did last time with the BAFTA thing.’ ‘No, no, no. You’ll see when you land here.’ And when I did arrive, it was quite a scene. What he had organized was a full-blown stampede! The police had to rescue me. They took me away as if I were a petty thief. The manager had an explanation: ‘Do you think it’s a small affair to create a stampede at the Mumbai airport, that too at three in the morning? We have shattered some concepts.’ ‘What concepts? If you had told me, I would have landed only in the morning.’ ‘No way. It was all done in consultation with the Home Department. The Home Department said it was Mia’s birthday. If you got late, it would have been over. Perhaps you might want to verify the facts with the Home Department itself.’ The Home Department is, of course, my wife Shadia. The food chain is like this: I am Baiju’s slave; he is Hunthappi Bussatto’s slave (Hunthrappi Bussatto is an allegory I stole from the great poet Vaikkom Muhammed Basheer to describe my life partner). A surprise birthday party had been planned for my youngest child Mia. Unfortunately, I landed up at the police station that night, because the police thought it was easier handling me than an entire excited crowd. But all said, this rogue of a manager has his uses too. He has saved me in some dangerous situations, when he would assume the role of a Protocol Officer. One such instance occurred soon after the Mumbai fiasco. I was told that a

6

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massive family gathering had been organized in Kerala in honour of my Oscar conquest. I was a bit lost. Massive family gathering? What family was this? ‘That’s the northern clan.’ ‘What’s this northern clan? That should be my mother’s family, no?’ I asked. I felt irritated. Where had all these other family members been all this while? I had not seen any of them before; how come suddenly they emerged? Why should I meet them now? Simple—there won’t be any such gathering; I have no time; I am going; pack up!’ Babukka, my eldest brother, cleared his throat. ‘Huh . . . But . . . oh . . . but . . . can’t you just wait only for this?’ I asked my manager, ‘What’s happening?’ ‘It’s just a matter of showing your face there once in the morning; it’ll be on your way.’ I couldn’t defy my manager. So I went. Now, while I had been lauded for my achievements by people across the country, I received no such praise from anyone in this family platoon. They had another agenda. The whole thing turned out to be a character assassination campaign. I barely survived the inquisition! The general verdict of the court martial was in the lines of, ‘. . . should have received the Oscar in the name of Allah . . . should have behaved like a good Muslim . . .’ I felt a familiar sensation—the itch of annoyance that starts from the tip of my toe and spreads up, suddenly billowing into full-blown rage. Immediately, Baiju warned me (in a voice that boomed

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like one of my childhood film heroes—where the hell did he suddenly get a voice like that?): ‘You should not get angry like that  .  .  . your image has changed. Don’t display your old self.’ This is the kind of problem I am faced with these days. I can’t yell at anyone, no matter how angry I am. The manager had also set up a code of conduct for me; if I violated that in any way, there was a fine that I had to pay him! He had made quite a bit of money when I lost it with someone over the phone at the Kozhikode airport. What does he do with all this money? ‘Listen, there are all Malayalis around. They can all understand what you’re saying. It’s okay in Mumbai. Don’t start it here in Kozhikode. This is Kerala, your home state.’ Saying that, he dipped into my wallet. The family gathering really started to get on my nerves. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ I told Baiju. He got up and promptly announced: ‘It’s time for Resul Saar to leave.’ My eldest uncle told him, ‘You step aside. This doesn’t concern you.’ This uncle had no idea who Baiju was; he thought he was probably one of my sycophants. But, knowing that he was my uncle, Baiju respectfully stepped aside. I shot Baiju a laser look. Motioning for him to come closer, I whispered in his ears, ‘If you start listening to all these guys, nothing is going to happen. You should insist that we must leave. You just call me; I will get up and go. Be strong!’

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