Udaipur, Rajasthan’s Lake City -- freckled with some of the swishiest of the royal family palaces turned into hotels, mourned the passing away of Roger Moore yesterday – with more nostalgia-exuding regard, than any other town of India.
After all, Roger Moore, who had taken over the style quotient of sipping shaken-and-not-stirred martinis from Sean Connery, David Niven (just once in Casino Royale) and George Lazenby, was here to do his James Bond number for Octopussy, the 13th edition of the franchise. The year 1983.
Posters and hoardings of Octopussy are still out in Udaipur’s restaurants and dhabas. In the era of video parlours, the 007 adventure ran to daily shows. The local populace could never get enough of Moore, inadvertently endorsing the citiy’s sights and sounds, encompassing autorickshaws (which the film unit called ‘tuk tuks’), the silk and brocade interiors of the palaces, and the façade of the white-marbled Monsoon Palace which formed the hideout for the villain of the piece, an Afghani prince in exile. The Bond caper, revolving around the smuggling of international jewellery, had kicked off with the discovery of a faux Faberge egg, if you please.
After Octopussy, popular global culture has impacted Udaipur with lasting effect only by Britain’s progressive rock band Pink Floyd. A hang-out, between Udaipur and Pushkar, continues to blast the classic trance tracks Comfortably Numb and The Great Gig In the Sky as if music had stopped with the Floyd. Similary, Roger Moore as Bond rocks on in one of Rajasthan’s prime tourist attractions.
The shoot for Octopussy was on at the lake-enclosed Taj Lake Palace Hotel. Two journalists had been exclusively invited by Uma Da Cunha, the doyenne of public relations and promotions then. Both the journos happened to be her friends, I wasn’t. One of the invitees was my senior colleague from The Times of India. Being a Bond freak, the rookie in me was outraged. Why wasn’t I assigned to cover Octopussy by my paper’s editor?
“Do you just want a puff piece, sir?” I protested. The editor detected that I wasn’t about to give up. “Go,” he said. “We’ll pay your airfare. The rest you manage.” Accepted, done.
Reaching the Lake Palace hotel, I wormed my way into sharing the room allocated to the rival newspaper’s. Journos have hearts too.
And rightaway I understood that to access Roger Moore would be as impossible as one of the espionage agent’s missions. He rarely stepped out of his suite unless it was to face the camera. Which took some doing.
The waters surrounding the lake had to be checked out for muck and disease-carrying properties. Plus the lake’s summer temperature’s had to be recorded and rated ‘safe’ before Bond dared to dive into the troubled waters. Such safety precautions had been assured in the actor’s contract. Hey, and I thought 007 could glide through hell and high water. A technician on site, corrected me, “It’s not only Roger who insists on such contracts. All actors do. Don’t they do it out here in Bollywood?”
Later, when the film was released, there was a barrage of criticism in the British papers that Moore saab hadn’t peformed the stunts in a tuk-tuk himself. A stunt artiste had executed the daredevilry. I was learning.
Next morning a bevy of Indian fashion models arrived, including Lubna Adams, who’s now a celebrated fashion event choreographer. Plus, there was an absurdly shy girl from Surat, accompanied by her vigilant mother who thundered, “My daughter will not wear bikini-vikini” Mummyji and Miss Shy were politely told to go back home. Lubna and others posed and posed provocatively under the scorching sun for test shots. Not that any of those who made the cut was given a tantalising close-up or dialogue in the final print. The international models, flown in, obviously were more ideal to fit the Bond girl swimsuit.
Three days ticked on. No chance to mosey up to Roger Moore. Uma da Cunha shrugged, “Can’t help you there.” Kabir Bedi, who was playing the baddy’s bodyguard, promised to be the angel of mercy.
Instead I ended up interviewing him, not much meat there, it was all about how he’s so privileged to be in the world’s most famous franchise. Next: former tennis player Vijay Amritraj, who was playing the spy’s ally, said, “I’ll fix your interview.”
He did. I found myself face to face with Le Moore under a cool tent machan, during a lunch break. He was forking a salad, almost in slo-mo, and cautioned me, “Don’t ask me if I am weary of playing Bond. I am not making any categorical statements. And I know you’ll ask me how I would compare myself with Sean (Connery). To that my considered opinion is that there’s no one to beat the original. Anything else?”
Er, here was a tough one to crack. He became less wary when I asked him about his TV series, The Saint. “Oh you know about that?” I nodded proudly, “Yes, yes, not seen, but read a lot about it.” The response, “I see.” Full stop. Erm, so what would he consider his USP as double-O. Pause, a smile and then full-throated laughter, “I hope it’s my sense of humour. I do make it a point to take things with a pinch of salt. Have you noticed?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” I beamed.
Moore wasn’t about to open up, and tell all about his personal or private life.
I went the mandatory route then. Which actors would he rate as his inspirations?
“That’s a good question,” he said seriously. I felt ten feet tall. The influences, as it turned out were, Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton, Marlon Brando, Alec Guinness, Laurence Olivier and Peter O’Toole specifically in Lawrence of Arabia.
Our conversation veered towards the glorious vistas of Rajasthan, the local cuisine (“the laal maas is excellent”) and the weather (“it’s melting point here”). Interview khalaas, the lunch break was over. From a distance, Uma Da Cunha looked as if she could murder me for snatching a conversation, even if it is was just a desultory chit chat.
My takeaway from the Octopussy gate-crash was that Roger Moore was drop-dead gorgeous enhanced by the very visible beauty spot on his cheek, an impeccable dresser and courteous albeit in the stiff upper-lip genre.
Udaipur, whether I like it or not, will always mean Mr Moore and Octopussy for me. Unerasable.
(The writer is a film critic, filmmaker, theatre director and weekend painter.)
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