Shaad Ali : Deep Cuts, Dad Issues & DIY Cinema: A Filmmaker Unfiltered

I won’t call it a style, but aren’t we all striving for that in a story — with characters, with people, with relationships? If you try to go a little deep, you’ll at least land on some decent surface. If you don’t aim for depth at all, you won’t even reach the epidermis of the character.
Even if you’re trying to fake it, you will still reach somewhere.

Music plays a defining role in many of your projects. How do you collaborate with composers to create such wonderful soundtracks?

As cliché as it may sound, I think it’s about the music I’ve grown up listening to — films, festivals, artists I follow. It all becomes a kind of hard drive, a subconscious bank.
I’m not trained musically. If you sing something, play an instrument, or write a poem, I can only react. And my reaction is usually just two options — this or that. That’s really all I’m doing: choosing.

I’ve also been lucky to have high-end collaborators — Shankar–Ehsaan–Loy, Rahman, Nizar. With people like them, the choices become very difficult. In the end, I have to say no to a few and have fun with the rest.
And then there’s the second stroke of luck — when it all somehow connects with people.

Tell us about Zooni and working with your dad. What do you plan to do differently? What do you think you can do to make this go through?

It’s a very difficult project — and an even more difficult question.
It’s multi-layered. It’s a journey of a father and son. It’s a journey of filmmakers. It’s the journey of the film Zooni. It’s a journey of Kashmir.
It’s the journey of Abba Hathim, the man the film is based on.

It’s a stack of experiences. It’s at least a three-year task.
But now I’ve put my head, heart, and hard-earned money into it. I’m self-funding it and doing it independently — because I wouldn’t do it any other way.

It’s impossible to ethically ask someone else to invest in something with no guarantee of returns.
But honestly, it’s the most liberating filmmaking experience I’ve had — and also the most personal one, in terms of my relationship with my father and mother.

For me, it’s done. I have nothing more to take from it emotionally.
Now it’s for the people who’ve stood behind me — my collaborators, the team. The journey from here belongs to them and to the film.
My emotional journey with it is complete. I’ve tripped out. I don’t need anything else from it.
That’s never happened with any other film.
There’s a lot of catharsis in it — maybe because it came from my attempt to change the dynamics with my father.

My question is, from one child to another — do relationships ever change? That parent-child relationship that may have been damaged at some point… can you really mend it over time?

On the third day of the shoot, I dropped the idea. It’s not possible. You can think of a change, and it may occur. But the only guarantee is in addressing it — and that’s what I managed to do.

And another guarantee: addressing it will always be positive. It can’t cause harm. It’s like homeopathic medicine.

Would we ever see you make a Telugu film?

The stories, the language — they don’t matter. I come from multiple cultures and languages. I’ve worked in Tamil films for 30 years with Mr. Mani Ratnam. I love the language — not that I understand it 100%, but I love its sound. It’s sweet, like Gujarati.
I can understand the humour, the food. So I connect — maybe not in the deepest way in terms of comprehension — but deeply in terms of filmmaking.
But it’s not because it’s a film; it’s because of everything around it.