The Final Act of Fear
“It’s happening tonight!” John screamed into the microphone.
John Smith, the official Master of Ceremonies, had been specially flown in from Hollywood to host Mumbai’s most eagerly anticipated event.
“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,” he said, lowering his voice and pausing for dramatic effect. He gazed at the star-struck audience, which waited with bated breath. “This year’s National Award for the Best Method Acting goes to…” He took a deep breath and boomed, “Amar Khanna.”
The announcement was met with a dramatic uproar as the large audience’s hysterical cheers and whistles drowned out his words. The occasion was the annual International Film Award function. The self-proclaimed superstar leapt, hugged everyone sitting near him, and swaggered to the stage. Crackers burst, and sparklers illuminated the sky. He ascended the steps of the elaborately designed stage, blew kisses at the crowd, and graciously accepted the award. All he uttered into the microphone handed to him was a brief “Thank you” before returning to his seat in the front row, much to the organisers’ chagrin.
The International Film Festival was closing in Mumbai after ten days of festivities and the screening of over 200 films. Mumbai was the heart of the Indian film industry, making it the ideal place to celebrate cinema in India—the city of dreams.
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Pankaj Mehta, the chairman of the organising committee and a successful film producer, found himself in a contemplative mood. Managing the unexpected outcomes of the festival and mingling with colleagues from the global film fraternity proved to be a significant challenge. Frivolous conversations with individuals from the film industry, the scrutiny of film critics, and the relentless press attention had driven him to the brink. He harboured a strong aversion for the haughty demeanour of Amar Khanna, even though the award had been bestowed upon him under the influence of influential figures who held a firm grip on the film industry. With a muttered expletive, he emptied his glass of single malt in a single swig.
Accompanying him were four distinguished visitors from overseas—a writer, a director, and a producer—united by their shared passion for the cinematic magic of the big screen. Mumbai had become a second home for these talented individuals, who dedicated themselves to crafting wonders on celluloid.
Seated within the exclusive suite of Mehta, nestled in a luxurious five-star hotel overlooking the enchanting moonlit Arabian Sea, their conversation revolved around the films featured at the festival. Pankaj Mehta took pride in their decision to debut their creations in Mumbai.
The younger generation overwhelmingly dominated the festival across all facets of filmmaking. They possessed profound literacy and vivid imaginations. Many of the movies crafted by these enfant terribles were characterised by a conspicuous fascination with the graphic portrayal of human behaviour that they would never engage in. In their wildest dreams, they wouldn’t harm a fly, yet they relished creating films showcasing the violent termination of human life, replete with gruesome details.
Mehta, however, was a worried man. He was anxious about securing government approval and certification to release some of these films in India. Although brilliantly executed, these films harboured a significant dose of sex and violence. Certain overseas producers had clashed with the literary film critics of local publications, who decried an excess of realistic gore and soft pornography in such films. They staunchly opposed the public screening of these movies. The filmmakers countered by asserting that the critics were living in a realm of imagination, detached from the realities portrayed in modern films. They defiantly asked, “What about the streaming platforms?”
“Have you observed the trajectory of contemporary filmmaking?” Mehta posed the question, emphasising his frustration by striking his empty glass against the table. “Look at the murders. Observe the harrowing torture scenes. They are profoundly shocking and disturbing. The graphic details are unsettling.” He paused, deep in thought. “Yet, the audience adores them, bestowing them with standing ovations. I can scarcely believe it.”
Adalene Petit, a creative talent from French Cinema, contributed to the conversation. “I have directed crime movies that feature no murders.” All eyes turned expectantly towards her. “One need not look far to find a crime scene. Simply peruse the morning papers. Without fail, one will encounter reports of theft, fraud, blackmail, and extortion-related kidnappings. Various forms of criminal activity persist in our surroundings.”
Abhinash Bhattacharya, a hard-hitting art film director from Kolkata, said, “What about the tax evasion perpetrated by wealthy industrialists and builders in collusion with politicians? Witnessing an abundance of bloodshed and violence in such genres is repugnant. They portray murder, murder, and more murder without rhyme or reason.”
Shankar Ratnam, a filmmaker from Chennai, interjected with a measured tone, “Perhaps we are overlooking a fundamental aspect here. A film, ultimately, is a commercial endeavour. It must cater to ever-evolving public tastes and satisfy the interests of investors. A film must perform well and generate revenue for its creators. End of story.” A contemplative silence enveloped the group as they mulled over Ratnam’s pragmatic insight.
“Why not craft films based on real-life events?” he proposed, prompting a collective introspection. “Murders have become commonplace in cinema. Let us seriously consider alternatives.”
“Any suggestions?” It was Martin Johnson, a young aspiring director from Hollywood. “So, tell me,” he continued, “Based on what you’re saying about making films successful, is it that men should be shaken out of their seats and women should be made to let out screams? Am I right in my assessment of the audience’s reaction?”
“Yes, partially,” Oliver Anderson chimed in. He had been quietly following the conversation. Oliver, a young director from the UK, specialised in crime dramas.
“The best horror films, like those by Alfred Hitchcock, are filled with tension. Suspense is the anticipation of something dreadful happening but not knowing when. Let’s revisit this genre of movies.”
“But today’s horror genre tends to be looked down upon, not taken very seriously. It’s often considered a somewhat trashy, titillating genre that appeals to our basest instincts,” Bhattacharya grumbled.
“What truly terrifies you, gentlemen?” Adeline interjected. She glanced around and noticed the puzzled expressions on her friends’ faces. “What in the world terrifies you?” she repeated.
“I’m not talking about movies with psychopaths in masks or supernatural beings walking the earth. I’m talking about genuine terror. I’m talking about the fear of a child’s life hanging in the balance, the fear of losing the one you love, the fear of a forty-year career coming to an end, and the fear of waking up one morning and realising you’ve squandered your entire life on meaningless pursuits. Have any of you experienced or witnessed such true terror?”
Her question hung in the air, met with silence. Amidst the uneasy calm, the topic swiftly changed.
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The discussions continued for a while longer, and the group decided to explore new genres to rekindle interest in theatre.
They discussed the possibility of delving into the criminal mind, drawing inspiration from genuine sweeping reports on the biological underpinnings of crime, including genetics, neuroanatomy, and other unsettling yet pertinent environmental factors.
“I have an idea,” Mehta announced with a raised glass, tapping it with a spoon to capture everyone’s attention. “I’ve invited superstar Amar Khanna to join us. He’s on his way. I know him well, and we’ve collaborated closely on several successful projects. He’s risen to fame with my support, and today, he’s won a special award for being the best method actor.”
He glanced at Adalene. “Let’s ask him to perform a couple of scenes. That way, we can gauge the potential of this fear factor.”
Pankaj Mehta was well aware of the connections Amar Khanna had cultivated throughout his ascent to stardom, along with his notorious reputation for either making or breaking the careers of his co-stars through unscrupulous means. “He’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing. These folks here have no inkling of his true nature,” he thought.
“Wow,” exclaimed the American. “Let’s do it. Let’s enjoy the company of a Bollywood hero and gain some insights into method acting.”
They shared stories that evoked extreme emotions, and Amar Khanna performed them flawlessly. During each enactment, his breathing shifted, his voice changed in pitch, and his pupils dilated. His body language transformed with each tale. The audience watched in astonishment, marvelling at his range, although they were aware that he was under the influence of alcohol and drugs, which added an extra layer of intensity to his performance.
Mehta started clapping his hands, and the others joined him. Khanna took a bow.
“Can you enact fear?” Adeline challenged him suddenly. “We haven’t narrated a story about fear yet. Yes, you portrayed five basic emotions brilliantly: happiness, sadness, disgust, surprise, and anger. But we have yet to explore fear.”
Khanna laughed disdainfully. “I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because in real life, I’m not afraid of anything. I don’t know what fear is, so I can’t portray it,” he boasted, glaring at Adeline as if he resented her probing. Then, he turned to Mehta. “This scoundrel, Pankaj Mehta, has attempted to scare me countless times with his devious tricks to get me to work for him. But it never worked. I’m done with him. I came here to tell you all this.”
Mehta was left speechless, listening with his mouth agape. “I’m here because I want you all to recognise my talents and give me a break in Hollywood.” Khanna raised his trophy dramatically. “This is proof of my abilities, and I’ve won many more.”
He downed his glass of whisky and scanned the room for approval.
His audience watched him in utter silence, trying to make sense of the sudden events, realising that the evening was taking an ugly turn.
“Come on, Amar.” Mehta approached him, patronisingly placing an arm around his shoulder. “You’ve misunderstood me. I couldn’t cast you in my last film because you couldn’t convincingly portray the fear of heights, which was the movie’s unique selling point. I was aiming to emulate Hitchcock’s masterpiece, ‘Vertigo.’ The director and other creatives were not in favour of your casting. You excel in romantic roles. But…” he trailed off. “Regardless, you ensured the project was never made. I shelved it,” he sighed.
Khanna jerked his hand away, shrugged, and headed to the bar for a refill. He gazed outside through the glass doors, smiling at the beautiful moonlit sea. He swayed slightly, drawing closer to the balcony’s edge. “How splendid it appears from this 300-foot height. How could anyone ever feel fear up here?” he mumbled to no one.
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Mehta’s plan had worked flawlessly thus far. It was the perfect moment to settle scores with Khanna for undermining his business. He decided to tread cautiously, not arousing the suspicion of his unsuspecting friends. He drew the curtains in his suite, leaving the lights off. His friends appeared engrossed in their discussions.
Khanna, on the other hand, was oblivious to his surroundings. His gaze was fixed on the sea, and he moved towards the balcony like a zombie. K stumbled, his foot colliding with a flowerpot. Before he could regain his senses, he toppled over the balcony’s edge. Remarkably, he didn’t release his grip on the tightly held trophy, clutching the balcony’s rail with his other hand, his legs perilously dangling outside.
The fear of falling triggered a chemical reaction in his body, even amidst his inebriation, compelling him to fight violently to regain the balcony’s safety. He cried out loudly for help.
These sudden and dramatic events initially shocked the group, prompting a frantic response. They screamed and rushed towards the balcony. Mehta was the first to reach him.
He extended his hand, and Khanna held onto it. Their eyes locked, and Mehta smiled at Khanna. “Finally, the time has come,” he whispered. Others reached them and held onto Mehta tightly. Khanna almost lost his grip several times during the struggle, nearly dying.
It was then that Adelene witnessed what real fear indeed was. She wasn’t directing a movie, writing a script, or observing an audition for her upcoming film. This was real, something no academy could teach. Khanna’s face was contorted and unrecognisable, his eyes wide with fear. He wasn’t acting. With a collective effort, Mehta and others pulled him up and carried him back to the hall.
Khanna attempted to regain his composure and put on a facade of bravery. However, events unfolded rapidly. His breathing suddenly accelerated. He placed a hand on his head and cried out. His face twisted, his pupils dilated, and he clutched his chest before collapsing.
The group watched in horror as the tragic scene unfolded. Mehta silently retreated, standing against the wall, observing the unfolding events.
He recalled Khanna mentioning his heart condition earlier.
Khanna lay before them, lifeless. Arms outstretched, eyes open but unseeing, fingers clenched, hair dishevelled, and feet at an awkward angle.
It was the kind of lifeless body that movies depict in graphic detail.
The climax scene had been performed to perfection.
As the echoes of their fateful evening lingered in the air, the clique couldn’t help but ponder the irony that unfolded that night. In their pursuit of evoking fear on the silver screen, they witnessed it in its rawest form, etching a powerful lesson in their hearts.
Genuine fear, they realised, wasn’t found in scripts or staged scenes but in the unpredictability of life itself. And as they stared at Amar Khanna’s lifeless form, they knew that sometimes, the final act of fear was scripted not by directors or actors but by the very hand of fate.
The group stood there, silently acknowledging the profound truth that life’s most dramatic moments were unscripted, and the most potent performances occurred on the stage of existence itself. They were left with a deep sense of humility, understanding that their pursuit of art could never truly capture the depths of human experience.
And as they gazed at the moonlit sea, they contemplated the intricate tapestry of life, where every twist and turn was part of a grand story, and every moment held a lesson waiting to be learned.
************************* The End ************************
