Hollywood's star producer Robert Evans, who wrote a cracker of an autobiography, The Kid Stays in the Picture, said in his short preface: "There are three sides to every story: yours ... mine ... and the truth." What engages a reader is if you can deliver all of it without being overawed by your own achievements, though memory usually has a soft-focus filter.

MY PASSAGE FROM INDIA By Ismail Merchant Roli Books Price: Rs 695 Pages: 150

In Ismail Merchant's case, that filter works overtime. Which is a pity. For his journey from Mumbai to Hollywood requires a robust sense of disclosure. What we know of Merchant is that he's a mix of Oriental adventurer and hard-headed western businessman, part self-styled Moghul and part movie mogul. He's a middle-class textile dealer's son who swooned when he rode in film star Nimmi's green Cadillac convertible, and who, at 66, is one-third of one of the most enduring trios in filmmaking. Over a 42-year association, Merchant, director James Ivory and writer Ruth Prawer Jhabvala have made over 40 films, winning over 30 Oscar nominations and six gold statuettes. In the bargain, they've launched the careers of stars such as Hugh Grant and Daniel Day-Lewis, Helena Bonham-Carter and Greta Scacchi.

THE TRIO: (From left) Ivory, Jhabvala and Merchant

But that's not the only reason why any lover of movies should read the book: it's an education in where sheer chutzpah can take you. There are early stories of posing as a delegate at the UN to tap film financing; of inviegling himself into shooting at hitherto unsullied locations such as King's College, Cambridge, and the Palace at Versailles; of crash-landing at Jhabvala's Delhi home; of getting Garrards to part with diamonds and emeralds for the shoot of Heat and Dust for free; and of using Shashi Kapoor's money (borrowed from his late wife Jennifer) to pay him back.

Though Merchant says an independent producer's life is not glamorous, the stars who have cameos in his book make it clear it is. So there's Paul Newman giving him a ride on his motorbike after a Broadway play; of Vivien Leigh's tardy arrival at a party thrown in her honour by socialite Sunita Pitamber in Mumbai; of renting Utpal Dutt from the West Bengal government (which had jailed him for staging Maoist plays) so that he could complete his part in The Guru; and of almost losing his star Bonham-Carter to a Raj Kapoor film.

So, you would imagine there's enough in the book to keep anyone engrossed-including the gourmet who will relish the description of food at Tunda's stall in Lucknow, Moti Mahal in Delhi, and his own end-of-week curry parties on film sets. Sadly, the autobiography is much like one of Merchant Ivory Productions' period films: beautiful to look at, but only from a distance. There's much we don't get to see: the dynamics of his relationship with James Ivory, the wheeling-dealing of Hollywood studios, the violent falling-outs with stars, and the ecstatic kiss-and-make-ups.

Supremely decorous but somewhat dull. Good for the arthouse, bad for the multiplex.

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