The atmosphere is bustling. I see the bartender as he flips bottles in the air and pours a drink, couples nestle on the sofa and dancers artfully decorate the podium in corsets and fishnets. Men look dashing in suit and tie. Women in heels and short dresses. A bouncer stands in every corner, waitresses wait patiently for theır drinks to be prepared. There's a poker table on my right, and a roulette table to my left. I am giddy wıth excitement as I walk to the bar with Maggie. Our escort introduces us to two tall, handsome German men in dark suits and we smile at each other. As we settle onto tall stools and make small talk, the bartender winks at me and asks what I'd like to drink. I notice a girl around the corner with a green martini, and say, “I'll have what she's having.”
“Kiwi martini,” he answers, “coming right up!”
A minute later my drink is handed to me, complete with a plastic-sword-pierced cherry. I sniff at it.
“This is apple juice,” I complain.
“This is Bollywood,” he responds, “it's the strongest you'll get!”
It's about ten in the morning now (a bit early to drink, I realize, but I've already spent the past four hours getting to the set, then herded through costumes, hair and makeup, and a buffet breakfast, so clearly it was time). I spend the next ten hours watching this makeshift world go round. The men in dark clothing who first took me onto the set move me from my spot at the bar, to a spot on a couch, to standing in the middle of the floor. I am coupled with one of the tall, handsome German men, Christoph, and we are told we must “pretend to like each other” while simultaneously being “very interested” in the dance performance taking place on the tall podium. After about an hour of preparations, while the dancers practice their routines and are arrayed in perfect angles for the camera, and we are strategically moved around the set to appear as the “white people at the bar,” and our star emerges from her dressing room.
A tiny girl appears in a dressing gown and a pair of Nike sneakers. Maggie leans over from the bar to inform me that she's Miss India 2007, and this is her first shot at acting in a Bollywood movie. She has a mop of carefully landscaped ringlets that cascade across her face so that it is practically impossible to know what she looks like, but her sharp eyes and sharper jaw line pierce through her dark hair. She seems both small and fierce as she slinks out of her gown to reveal a crystal-studded corset and a magnificent figure. When she takes off her kicks and puts on her platform stilettos, she rises to full power, and I must admit I'm slightly bowled over by her presence.
This feeling of awe lasts about a minute, immediately followed by the realization that the poor girl just can't act.
The scene I was lucky enough to be a part of was a dance number for the film, Crooked. For those who don't know much about Bollywood, it is important to know this about Indian films: they are almost always musicals. No matter how tragic the storyline might be, they will undoubtedly be interrupted from time to time for a choreographed dance number that completely disrupts the plot. These scenes are ridiculously excessive and exaggerated and include not only the main actors, but also a professional dance troupe as well as a group of extras. It's big, it's bold, it's Bollywood. Keep in mind, however, that to be a Bollywood star, you don't actually need to sing your own songs. You are simply required to shimmy around the set lip-syncing.
This particular film was supposed to star former Miss World, Aishwarya Rai (see L'Oreal hair advertisements, or the attempted remake of Pride and Prejudice, creatively titled Bride and Prejudice) and her husband, Abhishek Bachchan, two of Bollywood's most revered actors. Both have been in the business for many years and starred in countless films, dancing themselves into stardom (and each others arms, it seems). However, Aishwarya dropped out (rumour has it she's pregnant!) and she was replaced by the newcomer Sarah-Jane Dias. Sarah-Jane could neither shimmy nor lip-sync. And in our fourteen hour day on set we successfully shot less thirty seconds of the dance number.
It would bore you to hear the details of the scenes we filmed, but I'll provide one example. In the opening scene of the dance, Sarah-Jane is seated on a pedestal on the top of the podium. A curtain encircles her and rises as the musıc begıns, and the pedestal itself lowers her to standıng. She holds a peacock fan above her head, and is required only to move her feather-holding-hand downwards as the pedestal descends. We shoot this scene about nine times. Sarah-Jane just can't seem to get her arms moving seductively enough. She is surrounded by a group of male and female dancers, all of whom look up at her longingly, praying that this time she actually get it right. Her dance trainer shouts positive words of reinforcement with every scene. Her captive audience (we the extras), occasionally whistle and clap for her as the curtain is raised and lowered again and again and again.
We have a lunch break and are escorted off set into the blazing mid-afternoon heat. The glamour and novelty wears off as my makeup seems to melt and my perfectly poof-ed and straightened hair sags. I am skeptical of the buffet style Indian food and go hungry. Then we're in for round two. The borrowed heels start to rub in unsavory places and I feel a blister forming on the back of my ankle. The ten seconds of Indian-ized salsa music that plays on repeat begins to grate on my nerves. I'm told to walk from one side of the set to the other with my martini glass (now almost empty due to an unexpected spill). “Look excited” say the men in black as Sarah-Jane moves from the pedestal down the stairs of the podium, but there's only so many times I can look excıted about something that really is quite uninspiring.
Another hour passes. I'm told to stand at the poker table, a comforting hand on Christoph's shoulder as he plays a game. Another hour. I'm at in the corner of the room, shifting weight from one aching foot to the other. Another hour. I'm seated at a table in the corner, I can finally relax and watch the rest of the extras looking bored and tired. Christoph stacks wine glasses precariously on the table to entertain us. People have fallen asleep in the hidden nooks where they can't be seen by the camera. Others try to hide and behind the bar. I can see the crowd has dwindled, as some have left and caught a taxi home, forgoing the Rs500 ($10) they might have earned for the day.
We are finally told that our day was over at ten in the evening. We are herded off set and into the makeshift dressing rooms to change back into our clothes. I return my necklace and faux leather bag to the costume department. I peel off my shoes and massage my sore feet, which are unaccustomed to wearing heels as they once were. I catch myself in a mirror and I've returned to the backpacker I left behind for the day. The extras wait for a bus to return us to Colaba, and we are handed our menial pay. As we drive back I watch the sprawling urban skyline of Mumbai pass and when we arrive and I gather the friends I made through the course of the day and urge them to spend our hard earned money on a few beers at the nearest pub before it's time for me to take off for the airport. And thus ended three months in India.