The Real ShriyaMak­ing a movie is hard work. There is much think­ing involved — plots and premises; char­ac­ters and cam­er­a­work and a whole slew of such things, but if you ask me who has the hard­est job in film­dom, I’ll unhesi­tat­ingly raise a metaphor­i­cal arm and say: The Dia­logue Writer. What is the eas­i­est job then? Why, Lyric Writ­ing, of course. Now if you are one of those fancy-schmancy Hol­ly­wood types that knows not what a Dia­logue Writer or Lyric writer is, go away.

On sec­ond thoughts, do stay: Los­ing sixty per­cent of my two per­son strong reg­u­lar read­er­ship is bad, so I will explain. Now here is how it works. After a plot is decided upon, a screen­writer sits down and writes the entire screen­play but wher­ever the screen­play has char­ac­ters talk­ing, he leaves the page blank. Like so:

Shriya enters the room from the left.

San­jay is sit­ting on the bed.

Shriya:

San­jay:

Shriya:

San­jay:

Now San­jay hugs Shriya. Takes off her red saree to reveal a black saree inside. San­jay now brings his lips closer to Shriya’s lips. Giant rose cov­ers lips. Shriya wipes off her lips sen­su­ouly; cam­era focuses on her waist. Music begins. Cut to song.

Shriya:

San­jay:

Shriya:

San­jay:

Now Ms. Fancy-Schmancy, if you are still there, the per­son that fills the first set of blanks is the Dia­logue Writer. And, yes, the per­son that fills the sec­ond set of blanks is the Lyricist.

In the real world, a con­ver­sa­tion between San­jay and Shriya would prob­a­bly go,

Shriya: Hi, you are late.

San­jay: Hello, you are hot.

Shriya: Thats so sweet, thank you.

San­jay: Let me take off your clothes now.

Shriya: Ok.

Ok, I will stop here. My mind wandereth.

Once upon a time, the per­son that filled the first set of blanks had a clear-cut job descrip­tion: he was to write exchanges that were com­pletely dif­fer­ent from any real world exchange ever. So he would write some­thing like

Shriya: Sweet­heart, why art thou cometh late. I waited long, took a shower, and have with­ered like yon­der flower.

San­jay: Huh? I had to go to the loo. But now that I’m here, let me stick to you like glue.

The more unre­al­is­tic it was, the more peo­ple would clap and whis­tle. Easy enough. Today though, things are murkier. The Dia­logue Writer is expected to be a lit­tle bit more real­is­tic, but if he writes some­thing like “Um, you smell good, let’s have a go at it,” the cen­sor board will imme­di­ately inter­vene and do a cou­ple of things:

1. Mis­spell the dia­logue as “Um, you small goon, let’s have a go at it.“
2. Mark the dia­logue as offen­sive, and ask that it be removed.

So now the dia­logue writer has to go back and write some­thing that fits the lip move­ment but is not offen­sive any­more. Like, “Um, your mail came. Let’s take a look at it.” Imag­ine doing this con­stantly for every line. Very hard work. There is some hope though: A new tech­nique that con­sists of San­jay mak­ing vio­lent speak­ing motions with his mouth, with sound muted is doing the rounds. But that will be for a later post.

Fancy-Schmancy? Please don’t go away now. I will grovel. Will buy you cof­fee when we next run into each other. Maybe a Mocha Latte from Starbucks.

Now a lyri­cist has no such wor­ries. All that is required to be a suc­cess­ful lyri­cist is is a cer­tain set of eas­ily avail­able tools — the metaphor, the sim­ile and the names of ancient works of Tamil lit­er­a­ture. There is min­i­mal inter­fer­ence from the cen­sors, and what­ever inter­fer­ence there is can be cir­cum­vented with ease. Say you are asked to write a steamy song to describe the courtship betwen the lead cou­ple, you just reach into your toolkit and pick the tool of choice. For exam­ple, in this song, the lyri­cist uses a metaphor (from the movie Mazhai, star­ring some­one called Ravi and the real Shriya, who is not in any way related to the Shriya in our screenplay).

Let your kisses be the ham­mer
that dri­ves a nail into my brain

It should be obvi­ous by now that metaphors in songs don’t really need to make sense. You just say Y is like X, where X and Y can be quite ran­dom. And there is plenty of lat­i­tude. Imag­ine Ravi say­ing “Let me put my sword into your scab­bard” to Shriya. That would drive the cen­sors into apoplexy (and cre­ate a new record for bad spelling). But on the other hand, a lyri­cist can effort­lessly slip in stuff like that in a song and no one will blink.

Let out bod­ies unite
like a sword and a scabbard

Or you could say,

Let me be the Thriukkural
to your Kurunthokai

where Thirukkural and Kurun­thokai are the names of lit­er­ary works. Nat­u­rally, the names cho­sen here are ran­dom. You could put Silap­pad­hikaram instead of Thirukkural and no one would care. In this case, peo­ple will call this gib­ber­ish lit­er­a­ture and even try to slip a few awards to you. Yes, that’s how easy it is.

Occa­sion­ally though, some lyri­cists go over­board and the cen­sors notice.

In your hand a pile of books
And you, a pile of sex.

And when they gen­tly chide you for using the word seks, you just pick a ran­dom word from the dic­tio­nary that rhymes. In this case the song became,

In your hand a pile of books
And you, a pile of Vicks.

Yes, that’s how easy it is. We got our favorite lyri­cist to com­ment on this, and he said:

This is easy, I sound the horn
as easy as eat­ing a cob of corn
you can even slip in some p*rn
and the dia­log writ­ers will go darn.

Fancy-Schmancy, please wake up and smell the corn. If you are won­der­ing about the relea­vance of the title to the post, I’ll put you out of your mis­ery by con­fess­ing that I am not too sure either. But it seemed very cool, and the words sim­ile and cam­era appear in the post.

Also posted at teakada

Update: Manoj man­ages to find a few (non-blogging) peo­ple who trans­late verses much bet­ter. Go here. I hope Venky lis­tened to Shriya and let her stay in his cute smile dur­ing one of his watery orgies.

  16 Responses to “Simile, you are on camera”

  1. Sim­ile, you are on camera

    Mak­ing a movie is hard work. There is much think­ing involved — plots and premises; char­ac­ters and cam­er­a­work and a whole slew of such things, but if you ask me who has the hard­est job in film­dom, I’ll unhesi­tat­ingly raise…

  2. Hilarous! I lis­tened to the Mazhai sound­track the other day — NOT some­thing you wish you hear over head­phones, where each word is crys­tal clear… I think Tamil lyri­cists (if that’s how you spell ‘em) write songs to be half-heard as you drive by a tea shop… catchy beat & words of 2–3 syl­la­bles that every tyke at home will promptly embar­rass you by singing the song aloud in com­pany.
    I plan to wait for the DVD & laugh myself silly over the subtitles.

  3. Man! hilar­i­ous post!
    I am really hooked to ur blog for quite some­time now.

  4. Zero, thanks.

    Doz, Mazhai has atro­cious lyrics — that Istan­bul Rajaku­mari song is a laugh riot if you lis­ten care­fully. And this from the guy that’s sup­posed to be our best. Have you read Manoj’s post on subtitles?

  5. […] *View as Flickr Pho­to­set **Pre­vi­ously — 1, 2 *** Hat Tip: As I surfed the blo­gos­phere, alt-tabbing between week­end updates and Wilma tracks, I hap­pened upon a post that con­tained the words ‘Shriya’, ‘Mazhai’, ‘Waist’, ‘Thirukkural’ and ‘Lyrics’. Four of those five words piqued my inter­est and I went DVD hunt­ing in the local desi store, while pan­icked Florid­i­ans all around me stocked up on food, water & gas (wimps!). I might have been too opti­mistic about find­ing a DVD of a month-old Tamizh movie, but I still man­aged to find a replace­ment that kind of met my require­ments. Plus, I’m a huge Venkatesh fan. Yaaaay! Venky­babu (or what­ever it is they call you). […]

  6. Yeah — read Manoj’s lat­est on sub­ti­tles with visu­als! Why does he watch Tel­ugu movies? But that’s a ques­tion for him & thank good­ness he does — makes for great posts. The fun­ni­est I’ve see so far are sub­ti­tles for the Ren­dakka song from Anniyan. And as for Mazhai, Istan­bul Rajaku­mari was just the song I had in mind when writ­ing that com­ment :)

  7. heheh.…hillarious stuf, and bang on.

  8. Sunil, Thanks.

  9. As with most of Ravi’s movies, this too was a Tel­ugu movie that got remade into Tamil.

    Devi Sri Prasad was the music direc­tor for the Tel­ugu ver­sion and he has done the horrors…er, hon­ours for the Tamil movie.

    I cringed when I heard the “Istan­bul Rajaku­mari” song. Isnt Vaira­muthu the lyri­cist for this movie ? Its hard to believe that it was this per­son who debuted with “Ithu oru pon maalai pozhuthu” ? He has cer­tainly come(read, “fallen”) a long way since then.

  10. Incred­i­ble really, what some idle time and a wicked sense of humour can do :) )
    Had a ball read­ing this, infact, two.
    And now I shall stop, for it’s not polite to play with balls and laugh man­i­cally at a com­puter screen in the office.

  11. […] OzGuru has some impor­tant infor­ma­tion for all you fre­quent fliers Karthik proves that idle time, a sense of humour and Shriya can deliver the best in-flight enter­tain­ment, or even on ground. […]

  12. LOL! Loved the post. The lyrics in the more recent Tamil flicks are really sucky, espe­cially the Remo song in Anniyan,
    Love Ele­phant com­ing Remo
    Head­butts upon kiss­ing Remo
    Beware appalam hearts
    Ramp walk Remo

    LOL!

  13. have some resPECT DUMD ASSES.U PEOPLE SOOOOOOOOOO NARROW MINDED AND IF U DONT LIKE TAMIL MOVIE JUST KEEP IT TO UR SELF!!!!!
    DUMD ASS

  14. Thank God! For a sec­ond, I thought you called me a dumb ass. Dumd Ass is so much better.

  15. Hai Srikanth, Shriya says hai as well. She was blush­ing big time when she said that, so methinks she’s in love with ya. Really.

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