This is the second in our series of blogposts in relation to the Budhan podcast project, a community led initiative that has sought to capture the experiences of some of the most marginalised communities in India during the COVID19 pandemic. In this post we focus on a fundamental transformation engendered through the project – a shift from Budhan Theatre’s (BT) embodied practice of theatre to that of film production.

It is with a heavy heart that Siddharth began rehearsing his first solo performance, a monologue based on an article written by Roxy Gagdekar, on the death of his brother-in-law – a young lawyer and one of the first Corona victims in the Chhara community. We are in the middle of India’s first lockdown: the outer borders of Chharanagar, a primarily Chhara neighbourhood of Ahmedabad, are all shut, with police patrolling entry and exit of people and goods from the community. There is a retreat to the domain of the household and the podcasts delve into to the realm of interiority, physically, affectively and aesthetically. The camera in these episodes, filmed indoors, focusses on details of hands, faces, objects surrounding actors and interviewees.

The room has faded blue pastel walls, a few everyday objects in the blurry background. The frontal camera angle starts by framing the full  body, but as the drama unfolds, it zooms in focussing on the face, the expression of pain, the tears. The performance, which builds up over more than ten minutes is raw, painful, melodramatic. 

“I had promised my father that I would keep my sister happy. But I failed” cries the character when he reaches the hospital to find his brother-in-law dead. “Where did my Umesh go? Leaving me alone. My Umesh” cries the sister beating her chest with her hands. “Sister, sorry. I could not save your Umesh. You believed in me and my network. But I failed this test.” (…) “This coronavirus took all of our happy moments. Even after the death of my brother-in-law, I cannot hug you. I cannot even wipe your tears. Because you, sister, are corona positive…” Free from the tripod, at the height of the melodrama, the camera gets closer and closer, as the actor falls on his knees sobbing in agony, his glasses flung to one corner, hands reaching towards the camera for help. Soft music of plucked violin strings and low tones increases the tension – music designed by the composer to ‘visualise pain’. The episode ends in classic BT theatrical style, no anchor, no finale, leaving the audience uncomfortable, to remain with pain, injustice, and sans resolution.

Siddharth struggled with this performance, he tells us when we interview him about it. It had to be shot over and over again. And this was not just the closeness of the story to his own experience. It was about acting for the camera. As a theatre performer, he would project his voice, unsuited to the lapel mike attached to his t-shirt. Used to an audience, he found it hard to keep the emotional momentum in an empty room with no immediate feedback, the absence of the to and fro of energy that is so crucial to community theatre. “In film, you face the camera instead of the audience”, he explains. “In theatre, you use all the stage, and all of your voice to get your message to the audience (….). In film, if you want to say ‘this is the moon’ you show it. In theatre, you say: ‘this is the moon’ and show audiences by feeling it. It is by feeling what hides in your heart that the audience will understand and open up their imagination”. This is a glimpse into the complexity of the shift from stage to camera, from theatre to podcast – it is not ‘merely’ a change in medium, but about the very nature of the affective exchange, the intersubjective experience of performance, intensified in its affect for the dire conditions the performance mobilises.

The shift to the digital, or more precisely, the expansion of the digital to enclose life itself (khanna 2019), [1] was already under way before the pandemic and must be understood as part of a historical materialist churning of modes and relations of production and consumption, and the conditions of consciousness. The digital enclosure engendered by the pandemic, was preceded in India by the far-reaching implications of demonetisation – a political stunt that involved de-recognition of 90% of the currency in a cash intensive economy that was at the time predominantly informal.[2] Demonetisation made access to a smartphone essential for even the smallest of transactions (Kaur and Walia 2021), accelerated the ‘penetration’ of smartphones and made them perhaps the most significant tool for political manipulation (Farooq 2018) and the production of political subjectivity (khanna 2019). It also caused a shift in the modes of engagement with cultural forms and entertainment, moving away from the television and undermining the viability of theatre even further (Yadav and Srivastava 2020).     

Several of the communities whose stories feature in the series have traditionally made their living out of street performances. The Bahurupi, Nat and Madari tribes for instance, are predominantly nomadic tribes, moving between villages, states and cities, performing street theatre, acrobatics and dance. Movement being a defining feature of their life and livelihood, its de facto criminalisation during COVID lockdowns made these traditional forms of performance impossible, leaving no livelihood option but begging. This invited violence from mainstream society and the police, in a rearticulation of the underlying logic of caste and notions of pollution that structure Indian society (Guru and Sarukkai 2019), whereby these communities faced specific stigma, being seen as carriers of the virus (Behera and Dasani 2020). During the pandemic, with the smartphone becoming the key site for entertainment, the death of traditional forms of entertainment has been accelerated. It is in this broader context that BT’s shift from theatre to film making is of critical importance.

The story here is of a particular transformation – of a form of realist theatre that emerged from the struggles of an indigenous community, to an emergent form of film that holds together diverse influences and genres: documentary styles that reference a tradition of Indian realist and political documentaries, activist filmmaking and activist theatre, interviews, performances, songs and poetry. Since its inception in 1996, BT has performed hundreds of plays on social and political issues: from police brutality, to forced evictions and communal violence. BT’s work is embedded in communities’ struggles with members directly involved in mobilising on rights violation, legal disputes and in providing support to affected groups. During the pandemic, they also organised to distribute food rations, oxygen and medical kits, offering a form of security in the midst of precarity. In this history, theatre and film have always been interwoven. BT’s artistic director, Dakxin Bajrange is also a prolific documentary filmmaker. In 2009, Bajrange set up his own film production company, Nomad Movies, which he describes as a ‘media unit’ of Budhan Theatre, with the shared aim to be a platform for the struggle of different marginalised communities. To him, theatre and film are the same thing.  “It is only a different space”, he says, “one is digital, and one is physical. But otherwise, it is the same thing. It is about speaking about others’ pain as a way to also understand one’s own.” To other members of the group, however, the move from theatre to film marked a fundamental shift in their artistic practice. While the shift to the digital was quite natural a younger, social media savvy generation, for older members it involved a bigger leap both in terms of technology and artistic expression.

As we reflect with performers on the transformation of the theatrical form, we see at least four interrelated elements at play – temporality, space, intersubjectivity and concerns over the politics of spectatorship. In the realist street theatre performed by BT props, lighting and set design were minimised to render truth more real – to focus on the issues at stake. One actor recalls his resistance to the insistence of his teachers at drama school for more elaborate set-design. Instead, he employed minimal use of props and dim lighting to evade audiences’ escape to a fantasy world. His plays are political, he says, about reality rather than fantasy. Being forced to focus on the actors rather than the set, audiences had to engage with their raw bodies, their emotions, their pain. The body and the voice are centred as actors physically occupy a space, the stage, the square to impress their message on the audience, the message of revolution, for example. The synchronous connection of the bodies of actors and the bodies of audiences – so central especially to the street theatre performed by BT – is crucial to the emotive exchange. And it is in this dance of feelings, between performers and audiences, that the element of improvisation also becomes so important.

Compared to the synchronic interplay of the actor and the audience in theatre, in film the relationship with the audience is both deferred to another time, separated from the performance by a series of interventions, of frame, sound, editing and juxtaposition, and presupposed before the performance. The figuration of space and objects is, as well fundamentally transformed. On the one hand the continuous use of space is often replaced by alogical or discontinuous uses of space, with the change of shot as the basic unit of film construction (Sontag 1960: 29). On the other, the props that actors had so carefully avoided in their realist political theatre, became central to the filming process both in the context of filming performances and interviews. The sovereignty of the body comes to be shared with these other technologies, for a body moving in the wrong light would not make it through the lens; the meaning of an interview in which participants narrate their own real-life stories, could be easily lost in a dark frame. In the absence of raw bodies, actors-as-directors found themselves now thinking a lot about those very things that they before cast aside, experimenting with light from different angles to convey truth.

The video-podcast format, and its digital circulation through social media, also changed possibilities for spectatorship, leading to new concerns over censorship. BT plays have always been political, with actors fearlessly performing in front of police stations, at sites of violence. While these performances had their digital afterlives, featuring as part of documentaries or on youtube channels, their reach was limited. With film, people and places became more exposed, with direct repercussions. In Chharanagar, the threat of police violence is real. Making a film focussed on the community, and therefore documenting livelihood activities deemed illegal, could result in a police raid hours after its release. One way to get around this was to fictionalise, yet the material remained embedded in the community. In this respect the podcast production process was, more than the traditional theatre format, subject to a local politics of what can be shared, while responding to external expectations. In some of the episodes the more powerful statements relating to the failure of the state to address the vulnerabilities of communities were edited out for their potential to create problems for those who spoke, but also for the projects’ sponsors in a time where the ability of organisations to receive foreign funds was becoming increasingly curtailed. Filming issues of marginal livelihoods, and more controversial topics to do with the alcohol business, community quarrels, gender politics, restrictions on intimacies and marriage, was also subject to community censorship. As a community within a community, BT had to  account for different sensitivities – those who supported their documentation efforts, and those who resented any ‘negative’ portrayal of the community as non-representative and damaging to their reputation and wellbeing.

That which cannot be said, does not, however, simply disappear. It insists, it rearticulates in other forms and places, in unexpected ways, within the body of the film. This happens through a range of mechanisms including sublimation and aesthetic play. Our next blogpost will look at these rearticulations.

References:

Farooq, Gowhar (2018), “Politics of Fake News: How WhatsApp Became a Potent Propaganda Tool in India”, Media Watch 9 (1): 106-117

Guru, Gopal and Sundar Sarukkai (2019) Experience, caste and the everyday social, New Delhi, India Oxford University Press

Kaur, Sandeep and Nidhi Walia (2021), “Did Demonetisation Help India’s Transition to the Digital Economy?”, IASSI-Quarterly, Vol. 40 Issue 2: 305-318.

Yadav, Mamta and Manish Srivastava (2020), “A Study of Changing Consumer Trends in The Entertainment Industry”, IRE Journals Volume 4 Issue 4 (October) pp. 9-16.

khanna, akshay (2019), “‘Crisis in the Queer Project – political subjectivity in a time of digital enclosure’  atReconference- Rethink, Reimagine, Reboot, Conference organized by CREA, in Kathmandu, April, 2019

Sardana, MMK (2018), ‘Formalising the Indian Economy on the Wings of Demonetisation, GST and Technology’, ISID Discussion Note, DN2018/02, February 2018. accessible at: https://isid.org.in/wp-content/uploads/2019/10/DN1802.pdf 

Behera, M., & Dassani, P. (2021). Livelihood vulnerabilities of tribals during COVID-19: challenges and policy measures. Economic and Political Weekly, 56(11), 19-22

akshay khanna is a Delhi-based Social Anthropologist, International Development Consultant, theatre practitioner and amateur chef, with training in Law and Medical Anthropology and the author of Sexualness (2016, New Text), which tells a story of Queer movements in India, develops a framework to think the sexual from the global south, and introduces Quantum Physics into the study of the sexual.

Alice Tilche is a lecturer in Anthropology and Museum Studies at the University of Leicester, UK. Her research at the intersection of art and activism employs visual, collaborative and arts-based methods to research social transformations – including work on the cultural politics of indigeneity, migration, nationalism and most recently Covid-19. Alice’s book Adivasi Art and Activism: curation in a nationalist age was published with Washington University Press in 2022. Her collaborative film projects including Sundarana (2011), Broken Gods (2019) and Budhan-Podcast (2021) have been selected for a number of international film screenings and festivals.

We very much welcome questions and feedback @ alice.tilche@leicester.ac.uk and xaefis@gmail.com

[1] khanna identifies ‘digital enclosure’ as a process through which political subjectivity comes to be enclosed within the digital, and through which the possibility of its articulation outside of the digital is either foreclosed or made subject to articulations and logics in the digital.

[2] It is estimated that prior to demonetisation the informal economy accounted for 52% of the national GDP and employed about 75% of the workforce (Sardana 2018). A report released by the State Bank of India in late 2021, suggests that the informal economy now accounts for less than 20% of the GDP.

Cite as: Tilche, Alice and Khanna, Akshay. 2022. “Embodying emotions in theatre and film.” Focaalblog, 16 June. https://www.focaalblog.com/2022/06/16/alice-tilche-akshay-khanna-embodying-emotions-in-theatre-and-film/