Film producer Ismail Merchant, head of this year's festival jury, charms Nigel Ryan and Youssef Rakha Charming. It is a much abused adjective, rendered derelict through overuse. Yet there is really no other word, no more apposite phrase, to describe Ismail Merchant's affability in the face of what must be a constant irritation in the life of this international film-producer, the Merchant half of the by now celebrated Merchant Ivory brand. He is charm itself, even in the face of the persistent attentions of the journalist. Born in Bombay in 1936, Merchant first travelled to the US in 1958 to study for an MBA at New York University. Destined for a business career, he somehow became side-tracked: within less than three years he was busy hustling to have his 14 minute short, The Creation of Woman, based on the Indian mythological story of the Hindu god Brahma, registered for an Academy Award nomination. And in the face of all odds he succeeded. He succeeded, too, in securing a screening of the film at that year's Cannes Festival. It was en route to the south of France, stopping off in New York to see Madhur Jaffrey -- who would later appear in several Merchant Ivory productions -- that he was introduced to James Ivory. And the rest, as they say, is history, even if it was not always the smooth running kind of history the idiom tends to suggest. There were -- are, indeed, given the well-publicised spats that regularly occur between the two men whose names are now forever associated -- plenty of ups and downs. At the cadging of office space Ivory was to prove a master. And when cinema equipment in India is impounded because of an inability to pay hotel bills, when your leading actor is imprisoned on charges of political sedition, when the financiers who have promised a million dollars each to allow you to complete your film disappear to Latin America in the middle of the night, just what do you do? The answers are all to be found in My Passage from India, Ismail Merchant's soon to be published account of, as the subtitle has it, "a filmmaker's journey from Bombay to Hollywood and beyond". It is testimony to what Merchant immodestly, though with perfect justification, calls his "legendary powers of persuasion". Not that such things happen anymore. With the release of A Room with a View in 1986, and its subsequent nomination for eight Academy Awards, out of which it would eventually win three, Merchant Ivory suddenly found themselves "catapulted from the art house into the multiplex". The film cost $2.8 million and grossed $60 million at the box-office. Howards End, which cost $8 million, grossed over $70 million. And that was followed up by The Remains of the Day. But was it, after so many years of struggle, at all problematic to have suddenly become a kind of brand name, a byword for literary adaptations with superb production standards. Not at all, says Merchant. "True, we moved into a different league, but that's about all that happened. As far as our philosophy is concerned it did not change anything for us. We kept on doing the kind of films we wanted to do. We felt no pressure following the success of A Room With A View, because there had always been expectations. We had our own expectations, and that has continued. There has been no change in that." "Obviously one wants one's films and one's work to be successful -- not least from the point of view of acceptance by the public and the financiers. But I should say that we have depended as much on our failures as our successes. We learn from both. Practically, though, after A Room with a View we could open an office in Paris, which was an added responsibility. We also made a deal with Disney, a five-year deal, and one would be foolish not to assume that that was on the grounds of us being able to make a film for $3 million that could gross $75 million at the box office. But the magic is that each film must stand on its own. Certainly we didn't think that we were in a position to throw money around. Just because you're successful you don't throw money around." But how true is it, in the notoriously fickle world of filmmaking, that you are, in effect, only as successful as your last project? It does not, Merchant believes, apply in his case, which is possibly one of the benefits of the branding process that occurred. "We are," he says, "such a mixture, we are three together, writer, director, producer. Our needs are simple. That literary adaptations became the hallmark of Merchant Ivory, that I take as a good sign. And look what happened, suddenly adaptations were everywhere, and people would come up to me and congratulate me on things like an Edith Wharton adaptation, films we had nothing to do with, which was, in a way, amusing. "But a good story, good literature is like an eternal breeze. Along with literary material, though, you have to have the talent to make it. It's not enough to just have the great story. Sometimes people will make a film based on this or that book because it has sold so many copies, which is not a very good sign. But if you take literature for what it is, it lives forever. And it appeals, all over the world. Whether you're French, Japanese or Chinese -- wherever you are. It's not just a question of book rights to make money. If it were that easy it would be wonderful. Let's just buy 20 books." One of the perks, perhaps, of accepting the position as head of the jury, was to have a mini-season of Merchant Ivory films tactfully inserted in the festival's programme. And while this undoubtedly served to underline the diversity of the company's productions -- included, alongside such trademark productions as Heat and Dust, adapted from her own Booker prize-winning novel by long time collaborator Ruth Prawer Jhabvala, were smaller productions such as Merci, Docteur Rey, directed by Andrew Litvak, and featuring a cameo appearance by Vanessa Redgrave -- it was not an unambivalent experience for the producer. "I saw the screening of Heat and Dust," Merchant says, "a film that we had spent so much energy on making visually rich, lucious. And there was no light on the screen. It was washed out. I told them, and they said it's the projector. So I thought I'm not going to make a scene, I'm not going to have a fight. Let's just show it the way it is. You have the same thing in India -- in the theatres in Bombay, in Calcutta. And it's disappointing because when you've made a film that's wonderfully lush then what's the point of screening it if the projector won't show that. "Even outside the festival, one would want to offer the ordinary paying member of the public the best that can be shown. So cinema, the infrastructure here, has to be improved. A lot of money has to be put into it. You have to have professional people to handle these things. It's sad because there's a lot of good will, but the good will is not matched by professionalism. And I thought after this experience, perhaps I won't go to any other screenings of our films." For Merchant, showing in Egypt, indeed, seems to be all too familiar; it is disappointingly reminiscent of his experience in India. "Don't start me on that," he laughs equivocally. "I do think people are trying very hard. People are very hospitable, very kind, generous, willing. But organisation is not really part of the Egyptian character. It doesn't exist here. I came here eight years ago, when In Custody was shown. And it was okay. But I think it's just a question of every single person, even the people who want to see the film, being disorganised. They come, walk in and walk out. Then why do you want to come in when you're going to walk out? Or why do you want to come at 6.30 when the film is at 5.30? Because, you know, I think if you're organising an international film festival, even if the filmmaker is not present, you must present his film or her film to the optimum. The audience must respect that film. And if you're not then don't organise it, there's no reason to. "What do I think about Egyptian cinema? In many ways it's like Indian cinema. The actors are like Indian actors, the problems are the same. I think you had such a wonderful film scene in the 1950s and 1960s, that's like India again. I haven't seen that many Egyptian films, frankly. Chahine. I saw Youssri Nasrallah's last film, a very good film. In the 1960s," he recalls, "we were the distributors of The Night of Counting the Years in America. Well, it's difficult to talk about selling it because it's a very special film; it's one of Martin Scorcese's favourites, you know." The circumstances surrounding Merchant Ivory's presence in the festival aside, to bring the explicitly gay-themed Merci, Docteur Rey to Cairo, particularly in light of recent events, could well have appeared provocative. Was there any intention of making a point? Merchant, typically, finesses the question. "Merci, Docteur Rey is by Andrew Litvak," he says, "who worked with us on Jefferson In Paris as an assistant. He's also worked with Youssef Chahine. He wanted to make this film and when he said, I have this idea, it sounded very good. "We had a French coproducer who reduced his investment by 50 per cent. So we had to come up with that 50 per cent. In the end the film got made because he believed in it, the cast believed in it, I believed in it. When so many people have similar thinking, the force grows. If we had to wait until we got all the money we would have never made it. We showed it at the Mill Valley Film Festival, that was just last week. And as they were showing so many of our films, we thought we'd include it." Point or no point, it is evidently as a producer that Merchant maintains his creative space. "Loss?" he retorts incredulously in response to a query concerning his somewhat reduced role as a filmmaker. "But as a producer I am a creative producer. My creative contribution is not just about getting money. I help with the cast, script, everything -- all that is part of it too, you know." And over the years, with growing success, his creative space has, he feels, simply enlarged. "We have gone on to many more interesting things. We've had a foundation in America, the Merchant Ivory Foundation, for the past 11 years. We support young filmmakers, writers, all kinds of activities. In India we have a trust. We help families who cannot afford to send their children to school. So it is education. "I like the idea that the gifts that have been given to you, while you're alive, when you're fully realised can be returned to other people, so that they can become realised too. A young poet who cannot get his book published, for example: you give him $5,000 and he has it published; that's a delightful thing." Of his plans Merchant is obliquely affirmative. "Yes, yes, we have to explore the world through our films." Two Sisters In A Palazzio will be filmed in Venice. "It's two English sisters," he explains, "they own this palazzio, and they've fallen on hard times." White Countess -- in Shanghai -- is about an American man at the start of World War II. "The Japanese are taking over China, and the British, the French, the Americans will all be there; all these political games. And this man, he understands what is happening so he wants to open the ideal nightclub. And he calls it the White Countess, after a woman, a Russian refugee in Shanghai. "We have six or seven projects at a time. Right now we're planning ahead until 2008, that's 50 years of Merchant- Ivory. This is now the 41st year. And I feel great. I have," he says, "more energy than in 1962." And what of the festival? What of the judging? Are there going to be arguments? "No," says Merchant. "We will all be very peaceable. We will adopt a Ghandi approach." And somehow one knows that however peaceable it is, Mr Merchant will get his way. The financier may still be in Latin America, but the films get made.
