Though some would argue that good journalists have to be good actors too, we are not usually required to put on performances, except, if it’s for a story.
Though some would argue that good journalists have to be good actors too, we are not usually required to put on performances, except, if it’s for a story. I once had to, but the plot went awry moments before the denouement, thanks to a silly mistake.
A controversial Hollywood film, The Da Vinci Code, was released in May 2006. It begins with the murder in a Paris museum of its curator, who leaves clues in famous artist Leonardo Da Vinci’s paintings. They lead to the discovery of a religious mystery protected by a secret society for 2,000 years, which ends up shaking the foundations of Christianity. Based on author Dan Brown’s book by the same name, it had angered Christian groups, who wanted it banned.
My editor asked us to file a story on the mood inside the theatre when the film released it the city, and thought we would have a ringside view of the action, if any, if we dressed like Christian missionaries. Four of us were deputed for the job, and we were to watch the film at Eros on the first day of its release. A colleague hurriedly arranged for long white gowns for us to slip into.
Excited as we were, the act didn’t start well. As soon as we reached the theatre, we were spotted by the lensmen laying in wait outside. The pounced on like we were celebrities, though none of us had, until then, contemplated that we might land up on front pages of tabloids and newspapers the next day. The cops deputed to keep the situation in check noticed us too, but did not say anything.
Once in, we took our seats and kept a watch on people’s reactions to the film. The movie itself was gripping as one secret led to another more mysterious one, and we were getting increasingly anxious to know who the killer was. However, the good times were not only about to end, but badly.
Minutes before the interval, the manager of the theatre came to us and politely asked, “Sir, are you from a newspaper?”
Alas! Before the identity of the murderer could be revealed, ours had been laid bare. Disappointed, we decided to leave the hall wondering who had recognised us. As we were walking out, a police officer approached us and said, “I knew from the start that you were reporters. Missionaries always wear starched gowns, while yours are not even ironed.”
Ouch!
){kind=small}
){kind=small}
){kind=small}
){kind=small}
){kind=small}
){kind=small}
){kind=small}
){kind=small}
){kind=small}
){kind=small}
){kind=small}
){kind=small}
){kind=small}
){kind=small}
){kind=small}
){kind=small}
){kind=small}
){kind=small}
){kind=small}
){kind=small}
){kind=small}
){kind=small}
)
){kind=small}
){kind=small}
)
)
)
)
)
){kind=small}
){kind=small}
){kind=small}
){kind=small}
){kind=small}