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  • Naseeruddin Shah: The Angel of Chaos

    Naseeruddin Shah: The Angel of Chaos

    Have you ever had the opportunity to observe an actor observing himself? Naseeruddin Shah: The Angel of Chaos

    Early Noughties, Mumbai.
    In a sultry Mumbai studio, poet extraordinaire Gulzar’s face flickers on a mounted screen. He’s paying a tribute to Naseeruddin Shah, today’s guest on the sets of Jeena Isi ka Naam Hai, one of Zee TV’s most popular shows. Gulzar’s cheerful visage is replaced by a wizened face of a man who lived almost two centuries ago. The man weeps copiously as Jagjit Singh’s velvety voice wafts in:

    Zulmat kade mein mere
    Shab-e-gham ka josh hai
    Ik shamma hai daleel-e-sahar
    So khamosh hai…

    Daagh-e-firaq-e-sohbat-e-shab ki jali hui
    Ik shamma reh gayee hai so woh bhi khamosh hai

    Naseer looks at his two hundred year-old face and his eyes brim with a salty liquid, threatening to spill out. He stifles it.

    1960s, St. Anselm’s School, Ajmer
    The boy put together a group to enact scenes from William Shakespeare’s revered play Merchant of Venice. Even at that age, he is tempted to play Shylock, one of world literature’s most scorned villains. But in his mind he was exactly sure how he wanted to play it. He wanted to emulate his guru, the master that he had learned the most from. Day after day, the boy had observed the great Geoffrey Kendal prance about like a primal beast on stage, reproducing one Shakespearean character after another.

    a[highlight background=”#f79126″ color=”#ffffff”]The shy boy who found it incredibly difficult to talk to people, went up on stage with dozens of heads staring at him, judging him. But there were bright lights on him and he couldn’t see anything. Till he could only see the abyss. He stared at the black void in front of him and started speaking. That one night was to transform that boy completely.[/highlight]

    1983, a seedy restaurant, Mumbai’s Underbelly.
    Inspector Anant Velankar had had his fill for the evening. This was the only place he could afford to eat regularly. He’d freshened up and folding his wet kerchief into a neat bundle when he heard a clamour. The manager was engaged in a scuffle with a man who looked like a cross between a poet and a ruffian. Velankar intervened and was told this man ate and drank to his heart’s content but was now refusing to pay as he had no money. Anant pays for him. The trouble maker introduces himself, in flawless English, “Lobo. Inspector Mike Lobo. At present under suspension for being under the influence of alcohol while on duty. Under ssuspension ssince ’79.” He says this with his head held high, and fire in his eyes. But then it is extinguished immediately when he switches to “..well officer I happen to have no money on my person. Can you lend me some? Thank you..thank you very much..it will be returned, whenever you choose to meet me next time..you care to join me for a drink, officer? Somewhere else?..I thought so. God bless you.”

    A few days later. Anant and his colleagues are exiting a bar, a part of Anant’s earnest struggles to fit in, to comply. As they board a taxi, Mike Lobo emerges out of the darkness and hammers at the glass window, “Excuse me gentlemen, excuse me gentlemen! One minute please..can you lend me some money please? My wife died just this evening, and I don’t even have the money to bury her! Please help a good cause! Anything counts, fifty rupees or even five..please help a good cause gentlemen..” He leers at the notes that Anant counts and mutters again, “My wife died”. Anant’s colleague says as Mike leaves hurriedly after grabbing the money and thanking them, “Kya thha, kya ho gaya. Chup chaap naukri karta rehta toh aaj kahan se kahan hota.”

    February 2014, a Digital Advertising Agency, Santacruz
    He was just offered a book to write about Naseeruddin Shah. It was the beginning of a story he can still barely comprehend. He had bagged the contract and somehow with considerable effort, managed to get the star’s phone number as well.

    After much deliberation, without hoping for replies, an SMS went out. Exactly 90 minutes later, his response came in.

    Here’s what transpired then –

    N: You will have to write it without my help

    [Pause, quick chat with colleagues]

    A: Would you be willing to read it once it’s done?

    N: Maybe

    The wannabe author was crestfallen. The battle hadn’t yet begun and there was blood splattered all over the floor.
    Like friends walking in uninvited, an idea peeked in and lodged itself firmly inside his cranium. It made sense.

    A: Sir, to give you a little more perspective & to share an article I wrote about you, can I have your email id?

    This time it took an hour, but the email address was received.

    This was February 6, 2014. Just about a year earlier, I (yes, that switch to first person was intentional and intended for dramatic effect) had written an impassioned piece on Naseer and his work, for a film magazine. I worked on it for days, researching as extensively as possible. The magazine, however, chose to modify the piece in a way that it looked different and read different. I decided to show the article to him – not the magazine article. The one I had written. I emailed it to him.

    Next morning, Naseeruddin Shah wrote back. To the man’s immeasurable largesse, he even explained himself. I quote –

    “Reason for my curt responses is because a few people have approached me earlier also, but all expect to be spoon fed the information. I like your article….I have completed my book it will be out by x mas but we can meet.”

    Before I could gather my bearings, there was a text message as well – “Liked your article. Have emailed a reply.”

    Utterly needless to say, I was over the moon. In two days time I’d be standing at the door of his apartment, sweating profusely. He answered the door. Shit.

    Late 1970s, London
    Richard Attenborough had been planning a film on Gandhi since 1962, when he conceived the project for the first time. Nehru reportedly told him, “Make a film. Don’t deify him. That’s all we do in India. He’s too great a man to be deified. But make a film about him. He was a man, not a god or a saint.”

    The project kept getting delayed, and Attenborough made three films in the mean time: Seance on a Wet Afternoon (1964), Oh! What a Lovely War (1969), and Young Winston (1972). As he researched on his material for Gandhi, he kept looking for an actor who could pull off the title role with conviction.

    Naseeruddin ShahNaseeruddin Shah was considered for the role of Gandhi. He was given a ticket to London, where the audition was supposed to happen. Shah said in an interview that he was confident that he would bag the role. Where else will they get a better actor who suits the part? In fact, the Indian media flashed it on the headlines that Naseer had actually got the role. This further reinforced Naseer’s confidence. This was the first time he had been to London, and he had a blast. He was made to stay in a hotel in Oxford street and travel in a Rolls Royce, and was given some money to spend. When Naseer was taken to Shepperton Studios for the test, that’s when he met Ben Kingsley for the first time. As soon as he set his eyes on Ben, Naseer knew he was the right man for the part. A test was conducted, but by this time Naseer was convinced that Ben looked more like Gandhi than himself, and he was indeed more suited to portray the role. He also watched Ben’s audition, which further confirmed his thoughts. Naseer admitted later that he didn’t think he could do a better job than Ben Kingsley at that time.

    Between David Copperfield and Dara Singh
    The first chapter of Naseer’s memoir And then One Day is called ‘All that David Copperfield kind of crap’. It bothered him no end that some people didn’t get the Salinger reference. He would deprecate Sholay, and in the same breath sing paeans in praise of Dara Singh, his favourite star. He hates masala films with a vengeance, but is a fan of Shammi Kapoor and has immense respect for Farah Khan. [highlight background=”#f79126″ color=”#ffffff”]He’d do era-defining work and then feature in the crappiest of films, admitting without any qualms that he did it for the money, or to repay a favour he owed.[/highlight] He reads my book which has chapters on Kaagaz Ke Phool, Jaane Bhi Do Yaaro and Katha but reacts by saying: “I absolutely LOVED the articles on Joginder and the Ramsays! I love the B-movies and I’ve seen Bindiya aur Bandook, Teen Ikkay and Pandit aur Pathan..I’ve seen Ramsay’s Rustom Sohrab several times. It’s got great songs.” He can also go on and on about his love for Spencer Tracy. Both him and Cinema has given each other a lot. But the Stage remains his eternal lover.

    Naseer turned 70 today. For over 45 years, he has been deftly shapeshifting into one role after another, allowing that boy from St. Anselm’s a window to express himself. And you start welling up, as you observe him observing himself playing Mirza Ghalib, staring at the abyss, trying to speak.

     

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    Naseeruddin Shah on IMDB

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  • A daughter remembers

    A daughter remembers

    To my sorrow I never really got to know my father. I sometimes feel that if he had lived longer, perhaps my brother, Joy Bimal Roy, or I could have worked with him and learnt the craft in a way that no school or textbook can teach. But my father did not really like us visiting the sets. He kept home life and work life apart. And I think I was usually asleep when he came back home because in filmmaking there are no 9 to 5 timings. In any case we were too young. Joy was 11, and I, always immersed in studies and books, was 15 when he passed away.

    Bimal Roy with Manobina Roy and two of their children, Aparajita and Joy.
    Bimal Roy with Manobina Roy and two of their children, Aparajita and Joy.

    My father would have been a very loving father if he had had time. He was busy directing other children most of his life. Says Ratnottama Sengupta, daughter of one of Baba’s favourite scriptwriters, Nabendu Ghosh, “He had to pack in a lot of films into a very short time.” Sometimes I think he knew that he did not have long to live, to do everything or say everything he wanted to.

    There were so many unfinished projects when he passed away, the most important being Amrit Ke Khoj, a film based on a Bengali novel by Samaresh Bose, about 6 people on a spiritual journey who meet on a train and whose lives would never be the same again. Joy made a short film out of the rushes that were miraculously preserved in a trunk in one of the rooms rented by Bimal Roy Productions in Mohan studios where most of my father’s films were shot.

    [highlight background=”#f79126″ color=”#ffffff”]Quite a few children made their debut in my father’s films[/highlight]—Asha Parekh in Maa and Sona Mastan Mirza in Sujata, to name a few. Baby Sonu (Bablani) used to come over to play with Joy, who was a little boy at the time. My father chanced to be producing the screen version of Tagore’s Kabuliwalla and on spotting her thought she would be the ideal choice as the little girl character. Baby Sonu went on to win a National Film Award for the role.

    Bimal Roy with his actors Ranjan, Tabassum, et. al., and two of his daughters, Rinki and Yashodhara.

    All the children whom my father directed managed natural, believable performances. I saw my father handling those nervous kids with great sensitivity. Baby Farida, the awkward little girl who played the young Nutan in Sujata wore a short crumpled pinafore, had an uneven pigtail, a front tooth missing, and emoted a pathetic hunger for acceptance; in my opinion, she walked away with the first half of the film. Getting the best out of an actor, child or adult, is something Baba did magnificently. You have only to see the films to believe it.

    My father lived his life totally through cinema. Amrit Shah, my father’s right hand man during productions, once informed him that he had to sign a cheque—it was for a property my mother wanted to buy, the current family house; my mother being the more practical of the two. My father signed the cheque without so much as a second glance. Moments later, realising what it was, he looked Mr. Shah straight in the eye and said sternly, “I don’t make films to buy property, Mr. Shah.” The films that my father made were an extension of his beliefs and hopes for the nation he saw come into being before his eyes. He had a mission to fulfil.

    Bimal Roy with Tabassum, et. al.

    Though my father spent very little time at home or with us, his sets had a warm, home-like atmosphere. I know that he made people feel comfortable even though he spoke very little. [highlight background=”#f79126″ color=”#ffffff”]Someone once said that my father has been known to turn to a spot boy after completing a take and ask him what he thought of the shot. This innate respect for his fellow men and women permeates his cinema, befitting the ideal of democracy that he and his colleagues believed in so passionately.[/highlight]

    The people who came with him as assistants or fellow comrades from Calcutta, on that fateful journey in a train in 1950 that seemed almost like a journey to the Maha Kumbh Mela, became our fond uncles. Their respective wives became our aunts. Nabendu Ghosh’s family, Hrishikesh Mukherjee’s family, Salil Chowdhury’s family, Kamal Bose’s family, Dilip Gupta’s family, Asit Sen’s family, and many others were with us through all the joys and sorrows that we encountered while growing up. And even today, 54 and 74 years, respectively, after my father and mother passed away, the bonds still remain, strong as ever.

    Bimal Roy, signing autographs for kid fans, at the release of Maa.

    Dilip Kumar once said in an interview that there was no film school in the days when my father was making films. Dilip Kumar acted in three of them (two were produced by Bimal Roy Productions and the third by Savak Vacha). My father and he (my father called him Yusuf) were writing the screenplay of a fourth, a film to be called Puraskar, which was somewhat like the Goodbye Mr Chips story, when my father died aged 55 of cancer. It is clear that he was my father’s favourite actor. Dilip Kumar said that he learnt to act from working with my father and that it was the only “school” that he knew.

    While other fathers were perhaps spending quality time with their children, Baba was out there making films that gave us a world that we would never have known but for him—the matrix of Indian literature, culture and society, seen through the eyes of writers like Tagore and Sarat Chandra. The characters that filled his screen were ordinary human beings—a farmer, a forest officer, a village girl, a housewife, a postman, and once in a while, a freedom fighter—but all of whom became remarkable because of their lives of struggle, dignity and integrity. [highlight background=”#f79126″ color=”#ffffff”]Shyam Benegal once said that he had noticed that the camera in my father’s films was very carefully placed so as to always be on the same level as the actor. It was never used to strip a character of their essential humanity. No clever top shots to make characters look like ants struggling against a hostile environment.[/highlight]

    The famous child actor-turned-comedian Jagdeep who played a small but significant role in Do Bigha Zameen as Ratan, a little boy’s mentor on the streets of Calcutta Cruel City—the French named the film thus for Cannes—passed away recently. Some years ago, in an interview for a documentary on my father, Jagdeep became highly sentimental. He remembered my father as someone who treated him not just kindly but with respect. A little urchin fresh off the street, a faceless boy hanging around with many others on the fringes and kicked about by watchmen, he said he suddenly felt important and wanted. Jagdeep said that my father had promised him that he would fly him by plane to Calcutta for the premiere if the film was released there. And he did. Eons after it happened, Jagdeep still remembered this with great pride.

    Jagdeep, in Bimal Roy’s Do Bigha Zameen

    When he appeared on the sets on the first day, Jagdeep says, my father sent someone to buy a shirt for him. When the new shirt came Jagdeep was very excited, and wearing it proudly, he presented himself for the shoot. My father took one look at him and said, to Jagdeep’s shock, “Take off the shirt.” He then called one of the assistants and asked him to rough up the shirt, tear it and rub it in the dirt. Do Bigha Zamin brought neorealism to Indian cinema. For Jagdeep this was his first lesson in naturalistic acting. It also sent his opinion of my father soaring.

    Bimal Roy with his daughter, the author
    Bimal Roy, holding his daughter, Aparajita

    “Do you know wherein lies Bimal da’s greatness?” Jagdeep said to us. “Many people in India back then could not read. Your father took such beautiful stories, important stories, and made films so that people could see them and learn from them. For him, those people who cannot read are important too. [highlight background=”#f79126″ color=”#ffffff”]He loved the common people. It was for them that he made his films.”[/highlight]

    I have said that I wish we had known our father better. He was a very quiet man and was probably exhausted when he came back from work late at night. Listening to anecdotes related by people who knew Baba was a learning by itself. We got to know much more about our father in such a beautiful, intimate way through their memories. What better way to salute Baba than to recount the words of people who knew him better than we did.

     

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    In the cover pic: Bimal Roy holding his daughter, Aparajita Sinha. Others include Balraj Sahni, Salil Chowdhury, Hrishikesh Mukherjee, and Dev Anand. Below: link to the documentary Remembering Bimal Roy by his son, Joy Bimal Roy.

    [youtube_advanced url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HuXGy55bc4o” width=”300″ height=”200″ responsive=”no” controls=”yes” autohide=”alt” autoplay=”yes” mute=”no” loop=”no” rel=”yes” fs=”yes” modestbranding=”no” theme=”dark” playsinline=”no”]

     

    See also: Ritwik Ghatak, and The Bimal Roy Path

    https://filmcriticscircle.com/journal/bimal-roy-path/

     

  • Shoma Chatterji

    Shoma Chatterji

    Shoma Chatterji is the author of 24 books, including 12 on cinema. A PhD in Indian cinema history, she has been honoured with the Rotary Club Lifetime Achievement Award, Bengal Film Journalists Association’s Best Critic Award, Bharat Nirman Award, UNFPA–Laadli Media Special Award, Kalyan Kumar Mitra Award, & 2 National Film Awards.

     

    What is the role that women play in Hindi cinema and has it changed over the years?

    Women have mainly played decorative objects in Hindi cinema for a long time. Or, even in films where they had important roles, they are more victims and martyrs or victimizers of other women. Rarely have films like Kunku presented women as strong women who can raise their voice against injustice, who can rebel in their own way and make their own political statement.

    Each decade has presented its own brand of women in Hindi cinema. Mother India is a strong political statement on a woman who can do anything to establish that justice has been done even while remaining within the framework of marriage and motherhood. She defies the micro state of being a biological mother in order to fit into the framework of becoming the mother of the nation when she shoots down her own son to save the honour of a woman of the village.

    The ordinary woman has hardly been visible in Hindi cinema. During the time of Meena Kumari, Madhubala and their peers, the camera focussed more on the face of the leading lady than on the body. This changed radically from the 1990s when the body of the heroine became as or more important than the face. The sati-savitri image underwent a radical make-over probably with Nutan, who, without showing skin, made a powerful presentation in strong roles such as Seema and Bandini. Geeta Bali promoted the image of a mischievous tomboy, also a positive deviation from the sati-savitri image.

    One thing noticed in Hindi cinema is that like Hollywood, the actresses have often indirectly dictated the terms of these portrayals such as Meena Kumari as the tragedienne, Vyjayantimala as largely decorative but a very good dancer, Madhubala for her beauty, and so on. Waheeda Rehman was a powerful actress who blended her dancing beautifully with roles where she could rise above the decorative quality of the characters.

    Sharmila Tagore, Asha Parekh and Sadhana defined a change in fashion and style more than change in characterization. They played stereotypical roles in mainstream Hindi cinema wearing big bouffant hairdos, short, skin-tight salwar kameezes and did little more than flutter their false eyelashes at the hero and dance around trees with him.

    Jaya Bachchan, Smita Patil and Shabana Azmi stripped glamour off the female lead’s character and played roles that were as important as that of the hero. They were not commercially successful but did very good roles in whichever commercial film they acted in such as Kora Kagaz, Jawani Diwani, Guddi, Rampur Ka Laxman, Sholay (Jaya Bachchan), or Namak Halal, Arth and Shakti (Smita Patil), Karm, Arth, (Shabana Azmi).

    Hema Malini defined her own space and dominated the scene with one film after another just through the power of her beauty, her graceful dancing talents and her ability to bring off a hit with any hero ranging from Jeetendra to Rajesh Khanna to Sanjeev Kumar through Dharmenda to Dev Anand. But she could hardly act and it needed a very good director like Ramesh Sippy to bring good performances out of her such as she did I Seeta aur Geeta and Sholay and again, as Meera under the directorial baton of Gulzar. She ruled the heroine batch for nearly two decades. Zeenat  Aman who was pulled in by her beauty queen image, could do nothing to change the portrayal of the Hindi heroine in any way and there were many like her such a Reena Roy, Farah, Neelam, and others.

    From Rekha followed by Madhuri Dixit and Karisma Kapoor, the woman in Hindi films became louder in every sense – voice, articulation and delivery of dialogue, sexual aggressiveness and terms of character. This trend continues in a much more aggressive way carried forward in its well-packaged globalized image by the present crop comprised of Aishwarya Rai, Preity Zinta, Priyanka Chopra, Kareena Kapoor, Rani Mukherjee, Kajol and so on. They just do not agree to play complacent sugar syrupy characters who are expected to flutter their eyelashes and turn into glycerine factories at the wave of the director’s hand. Madhuri was decorative to begin with but changed over slowly and steadily with Tezaab followed by films like Beta, Dil, Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge culminating in Mrityudand.

    Actresses like Vidya Balan, Tabu have struck a balance between glamour and convention helped by their looks and the image they present. The woman is stronger, almost equal to a man in current films such as Dhoom, Dhoom II, Shaurya, Aitraazwhere there is almost no difference between the heroine and the vamp because all the female stars are willing to step into negative roles if they are strong and can make a lasting impression on the audience.

    Into the 2000 however, one is constrained to point out that most of the high-budget Hindi films that rely greatly on direct marketing by the stars, are either blatant or clever remakes of Hollywood films, both hits and flops. Thus the portrayal of the woman is also a ‘borrowed’ portrayal that is greatly distanced from the Indian woman on the street, urban or rural, educated or not educated, working or non-working and so on. Ethical values have changed to a large extent too because premarital sex, adultery, sexual overtures where the woman takes the initiative are quite common and have also got audience acceptance. Otherwise films like Astitva and Gangster and  Jism and actresses like Bipasha Basu and Kangna Ranaut would never have clicked the way they have.

    From the point of view of the Feminist Film Theory, how would you analyse a female actor in Hindi cinema today?

    Please refer to the introductory chapter of my book SUBJECT: CINEMA, OBJECT: WOMAN – A STUDY OF THE PORTRAYAL OF WOMEN IN INDIAN CINEMA, which contains a detailed analysis of which of the two Feminist schools – the American school of sociological analysis, or the British School based on psycho-analytical theory fits into the scheme of the portrayal of women in Hindi cinema. My argument is that since much of Hindi cinema is influenced by Hollywood from the mid-1950s, the feminist analysis of female characters in Hindi films would fit more into the American School than the British School of Feminist film theory. Looking back on Hindi cinema however, I feel that as an Indian critic and film analysis, we should give up the tendency to rely on Western constructs of feminist film criticism. I might add also that they are fine for (a) offering choices of alternative schools of thought, (b) guiding the process of feminist film research, (c) forming frames of reference for specific issues that are global in character such as cinematic depiction of rape, and, perhaps, (d) providing a platform for interesting and exciting comparisons between a Hollywood film and a mainstream Hindi film on the same subject.

    I have realised over my years of research into the portrayal of women in Hindi cinema that these constructs, theories and perspectives can neither be directly applied to nor superimposed on Indian mainstream cinema’s treatment and portrayal of women. One has to develop a mode of analysis that is culture-specific and situation-specific. Feminist film theories that draw mainly upon psycho-analysis, semiology and structuralism do not have much bearing on an analysis of portrayals of women in Hindi cinema. So, one has to develop a new theory of such analysis against the backdrop of the Indian socio-economic backdrop within which the real woman lives and works and study the intersections of these with celluloid women in Indian cinema. How distanced are the real women from the celluloid women? Does distancing help nurture better images of the celluloid women or does it hinder the image more and thus distance the audience from these films? Globalization has changed it all and one needs to look at the woman portrayals in Hindi cinema in 2010 with new eyes and through a new pair of glasses tinted with the razzmatazz of Western packaging, sophisticated marketing strategies, the launching of music and stars taking part in reality shows to plug their about-to-be-released films.

    Who is a female actor today in Bollywood that you admire, and why?

    I admire most of them for their commitment, their approach to their career and their roles, their readiness to learn new skills such as fighting, riding, karate, climbing mountains and so on and their readiness to shed clothes according to the demands of the character, the film, the director, their flexibility and the power they exude by their mere presence on and off screen. They are articulate, intelligent and dynamic and hold themselves extremely well in public space and even on screen. Among the choice select, I would pick Aishwarya Rai, Kajol, Kareena Kapoor, Priyanka Chopra, Kangana Ranaut, Konkona Sharma, Bipasha Basu, Rani Mukherjee, Katrina Kaif and Preity Zinta. Sadly, the new crop of young leading ladies who make their debut opposite  heroes like Amir and Shahrukh cannot make it afterwards for some mysterious reason.

    Is there any specific difference between the role that women play in Hindi cinema vs other regional Indian cinema?

    I can only speak in relation to Bengali mainstream which does not stand any comparison at all because most Bengali mainstream films are cut-and-paste jobs from Southern films and Hindi films.

    Could you kindly speak about any specific contemporary Indian director who is sensitive to the portrayal of women in Indian cinema. And how does that reflect in their work and cinematic choices?

    Shyam Benegal, Madhur Bhandarkar, Vishal Bharadwaj, Anurag Kashyap, Anurag Basu, Rituparno Ghosh, Sanjay Leela Bhansali, and Mahesh Manjrekar who directed Astitva. Even when they do not make films that are involved in basic gender issues and are gender-neutral in treatment and storyline and approach, they are very sensitive in their projections of the female characters in their films. Madhur Bhandarkar would come on top of this list after Benegal.

  • On the Declivity of Disciples

    On the Declivity of Disciples

    A tragedy in three parts, each separated by prolonged blackouts, The Disciple takes shape using the Indian classical music fraternity as one big metaphor to demonstrate how in today’s world of self-promotion and exaggerated marketing, degradation has occurred in almost every field, and how our blinded attitudes are responsible for the distortion of many of our long-standing, cherished values; politics and the social fabric being classic examples of such deformations.

    This is a story of three ordinary singers, the protagonist Sharad Nerulkar (Aditya Modak) and his Guruji and father. Three men belonging to almost three different generations and who chance to be in the field of music. The protagonist is highly fascinated by, and wishes to live his life holding on to, an ideal — the secretly-taped philosophical discourses of a mystic singer, MAI, whose singing almost nobody existing today has ever heard. On being questioned about the kind of songs that MAI sang, Sharad’s father replies, “It cannot be described”; an answer that displays the level of unfortunate ignorance. Despite the protagonist’s desire for purity, though, he is compelled to make compromises at a performance sponsored by a wealthy builder; a similar attitude is also noticed in the other two.

    In the contemporary world, the entirety /the purity /the sacrifice /the ideologies that MAI talks about have turned out to be mere words only worth listening to. One can ride high on those intoxicating words, dazzled by the brightness of it all, but only momentarily. Just as how the protagonist, wearing his earphones, shuts out all surrounding noises and moves in slow motion — lost within — but is jolted back to his senses on listening to MAI’s words, “It takes courage to face the truth, because the truth is often ugly.” Those words compel him to pull off his earphones, and as soon as he does so, he suddenly realizes the actuality of the motion, the noises, and the practicality of the situations that surround him.

    The fundamental contradiction between two ideologies places the protagonist in a dilemma. MAI philosophizes, “Don’t get stuck in mere technicalities. Techniques can be taught, but not emotions,” whereas Guruji asks him, “Did you not practice enough?” On the one hand lies the attraction of MAI’s voice (ideal) of the past, whereas on the other is the mere mechanical adherence to the instructions in the meditation (yoga) classes. Both offer him superficial solace virtually equating masturbation.

    Over time, a lot starts becoming extinct within the protagonist. When on the day of MAI’s birth anniversary, Guruji is unable to sing up to the mark (Guruji is unable to strike the right chord), the protagonist is reminded of his meeting with a critic. Angered at the critic’s views he had then splashed water at his face. But now, while Listening to his Guruji’s flawed live performance, the truth appears to dawn upon him and he becomes aware of a different reality. Later, he gives Guruji a bath, and as he dresses him up one gets a feeling that he is covering Guruji in a kafan(a death robe). One cannot stop from noticing that something within the protagonist, something very dear to him, is dying.

    The Disciple poses the question of who should be held more responsible for the degradation of values — the audiences who come to concert halls reminiscing the taste of vada pav (a popular Indian junk food) and/or because the weather conditions seem favorable, or the classical musicians themselves who present their art to their audience with a non-committal attitude?

    The film also makes a commentary on the fate of Classical Art falling prey in these modern times to the gigantic demons of Promotion & Marketing, and likens it to a case of mob lynching — a humble participant enters a substandard popular music show and wows the judges with a Hindustani Classical Music rendering, but by the time she reaches the final round, her attire and attitude are grossly westernized, and her face is hidden behind layers of gaudy makeup; it almost appears as if she is being lynched by the talent program.

    A heartbreaking remnant of the teachings passed on from one generation to the other is displayed when the protagonist is seen teaching his daughter to catch hold of something distant, in a pinch. When a folk singer sings out the truth about how we who have evolved through indigenous traditions have today become alienated and flawed and thus turn a blind eye, the protagonist pretends not to see or hear him. And the film ends. Tamhane strongly brings upon us the realization of the losses we have suffered over the declivity of disciples through several generations.

     

    See also — an analysis of The Disciple by Oorvazi Irani

    https://filmcriticscircle.com/journal/the-disciple-a-love-story-of-the-artist-and-his-art/

    The Disciple The Disciple

  • The Disciple — a Love Story of the Artist and his Art

    The Disciple — a Love Story of the Artist and his Art

    Artist Warning: this analysis of The Disciple contains spoilers. Artist

    The protagonist of The Disciple, Sharad Nerulkar, above all is a seeker, and is deeply in love with music, aspiring for absolute union with his art; thus making this a love story, albeit, not a conventional one. The conflict in its external form is society and survival, and in its internal form is the inherent talent of the protagonist. The film belongs to the realist mode of filmmaking, and the authentic real settings and non-actors as characters in the film go a long way to achieve that goal. The protagonist is portrayed by Aditya Modak a real-life musician himself, who transforms effortlessly in the film from the age of 24 to 46, meeting the physical and internal challenges of the character quite effectively.

    The film begins with the protagonist seated on the stage completely in love and reverence of, and in the shadow of, his guru rendering raag Jaunpuri at a Hindustani Classical Music concert. The filmmakers are not shy of the fact that Indian classical music is the universe of the film as there are various occasions besides this for multiple musical concert recitals. They believe that the audience who will want to experience the film authentically would also like to experience first-hand the flavour of a musical live performance. As a viewer, I was keenly aware that film is an artform and music is an independent artform. Since the film’s subject tackles Indian classical music, I was sensitive to the interplay or conversation between the two artforms as a total experience. Probing further on this interplay, I spoke to Aneesh Pradhan, the Music Director.

    Although Hindustani Classical Music is nonrepresentational in that the musical elaboration does not represent specific events and situations, in the context of the film, music performances form an integral part of the narrative and Chaitanya Tamhane’s directorial vision has revealed many stories while taking the audience on a musical journey through these performances. The highly nuanced and subtle treatment of the film mirrors similar treatment experienced in khayal. Typically, a Hindustani Classical Music vocal concert can last for as long as three hours and more, but we had to restrict the duration in keeping with the requirements of the film. I took inspiration from the 78 rpm records that were published in the early part of the 20th century and that have some of the most brilliantly tailored 3–4-minute performances. (Aneesh Pradhan)

    Questioned on whether the structure of Indian classical music played any role in that of The Disciple, Tamhane’s views brought an interesting dimension to the forefront.

    I would say yes and no. When I wrote the script, I wrote it like I would write any other screenplay. But they say that a film is written thrice — first, during the scripting stage, the second, when you shoot it, and then during the editing. (The same, incidentally, is true when you are doing the sound for a film.) In both, the production and the postproduction stages, the rhythm of the film and individual scenes became very important to me. This would be the case even if I am directing a film that has nothing to do with music.

    By virtue of the fact that they were performing music, I decided that the tanpura would be the bed of sound that is guiding the scene or guiding the rhythm of the scene. I had to do justice and be respectful to the structure of Indian classical music, or rather, to the structure, to the mode, and to the rhythm of Indian classical music. And all that seeped into the final mix, the sound design, the edit, the rhythm of the scene, the length of the scene, and the transitions of the scene. It would be pretentious of me to say that I deliberately structured the film on the structure of Indian classical music. But to some extent, yes, the rhythm and structure of the film is definitely inspired and influenced by the music in the film and by the choices we have made in sound design. It’s a two-way process of the music influencing the film and the film influencing the music. (Chaitanya Tamhane)

    Thus, I feel that the film with its subject and treatment is also an interesting opportunity for the audience to view in context of Indian classical aesthetics. The aim of the classical Indian artist with a work of art is to evoke a particular rasa (heightened emotional state) and make the audience experience something beyond mundane raw emotions. If I look at the film in this context of the exploration of a central emotion from the 8 basic rasas — Sorrow, Fear, Laughter, Anger, Wonder, Disgust, Love, Heroism — then personally Karuna (Sorrow) is the feeling that I am left with after experiencing the film. It feels like a melancholic mood that is all pervasive in the film; however, it is not one of dejection or hopelessness but rather of struggle and yearning. In fact, Indian art aesthetics exploring the psychological state of Sorrow includes the journey of other transient feelings and shades that make up a complex layered experience of that emotion. It may be interesting too to point out that the highest form of Sorrow in the Natyashastra (ancient Indian treatise on drama/art) is Compassion.

    Technically speaking, in Indian classical music, the choices made in relation to the choice of notes and the arrangement of notes and rhythm create a mood in a raag. In the case of The Disciple, though, there is no overall raag scheme set in a particular mood exploration, as I was informed by the filmmaker and his team. I feel that the vilambit (the overriding slow rhythm) went a long way in helping the film explore a particular psychological state. However, this is my personal take on the film and its mood in context with ancient Indian aesthetics and a particular conscious emotional state. Tamhane’s view differs radically.

    It wasn’t any one particular psychological state that I was trying to explore, if anything. I had wanted to show the transition or change in the psychological /emotional state of the character, which starts with a whirlpool of possibilities until slowly that dream starts fading away, that colour starts fading away, and maybe in some ways, he becomes more insecure. And that reflects in the music as well. Then he reaches a certain phase where he is trying to reach some kind of transcendence. And then there is a certain calm state of mind that he reaches in the end. At the level of the story, the film is about an artist struggling to find his inner voice, pursuing excellence, and negotiating his artistic expression in a fast-changing city like Mumbai. (Chaitanya Tamhane)

    So, the film is about a hero on a quest and the goal set out for him appears to the forefront when we hear the wise words and advise from the recordings of Mai, his father’s guru, evocatively voiced by late Sumitra Bhave.

    Saints and ascetics have attained this music after thousands of years of rigorous spiritual pursuit. It cannot be learnt so easily. Even ten lifetimes are not enough. The sacred texts don’t merely prescribe, “This raag uses the Pancham or that raag skips the Dhaivat.” Through this music, we are shown the path to the divine. There is a reason why Indian classical music is considered an eternal quest. And to embark on that quest you will have to surrender and sacrifice. If you want to earn money, raise a family, then perform love songs, or film songs. Don’t tread this path. If you want to tread this path, learn to be lonely and hungry.

    These recurring passages in the film reenforce the kind of high standards that the goal embodies for our protagonist and brings to light the true spiritual nature of Indian classical music, making the other scenes and their treatment like a parallel universe of the real mundane world where the protagonist is failing and struggling to meet his goal, faced with the human conflict between his need for survival and his passion for experiencing the divine.

    I would like to go on a slight tangent here. What makes these scenes with the spiritual guru come to life is the drowning hypnotic music that suspends reality, created by the tanpura. The filmmaker and his team have made a brilliant choice with this as the key instrument in the film instead of, say, a sitar or a flute. This is an Indian drone instrument that is usually played in the background and sustains the melody in a performance by providing a sustained harmonic drone; in The Disciple, though, the tanpura takes centerstage. The presence of the drone also embodies the concept of om, the elemental and eternal sound from which all other sounds flow.

    The tanpuras that you hear constantly when Sharad is on his bike were tuned or detuned consciously to represent the mood of the protagonist or to add a dimension to the brooding, oppressive, or introspective tenor that was being experienced on screen. (Aneesh Pradhan)

    The visual treatment by cinematographer Michal Sobocinski adds another dimension of poetic grace with its slow speed and gentle movements that further suspends us in this bubble that appears to be floating towards or away from the protagonist. It is interesting to observe that the background and space of this unfolding are the streets of Mumbai — the city as a character in the film literally juxtaposed to all that Mai speaks about as ideal demonstrates the corrupting influence of modernism.

    Further exploring the story, the climax of the film evocatively embodies one of the significant overarching themes of the film — the struggle between the ancient and modern. I would like to discuss the sequence of scenes that lead to the resolution of the film, starting with a film song and ending with a folk song, but including a raag at its central core.

    Starting from about 15 minutes towards the closing of the film, we are presented with the song of a reality show that represents the corrupting influence of modernism and commercialism — a humble participant at a talent show who had auditioned with a classical Indian music piece is later reduced to a dark seductress vamp; through this sequence, perhaps, the filmmakers are demonstrating how the sacredness of the classical form is eventually being replaced with cheap entertainment.

    This above scene is followed by one in which the protagonist as a member of the audience witnesses a performance. And with the soundtrack of a J cut (that is, the audio of the next cut appears before the visual), we are soon drowned in the sonic womb of the tanpura. This then visually transitions to the last concert performance by the protagonist in which Tamhane and Pradhan have deliberately chosen to use a particular raag, Mia ki Malhar.

    We did not follow any rasa or mood when it came to the selection of repertoire. But Sharad’s last concert scene is very poignant as he tries to find his voice or musical identity in the presence of an audience. For this scene, we tried unconventional melodic phrasing while using Mia ki Malhar, a raag prescribed for the monsoon. (Aneesh Pradhan)

    Complimenting the soundtrack is the evocative camerawork (Polish cinematographer Michal Sobocinski) and actor staging, which begins with the camera capturing the protagonist from behind — the staging itself speaks volumes — before gently gliding through the air and coming bang frontal.

    We did not want the film to be composed of only static shots, yet concepts like having the camera moving with the music seemed too music video-ish. Ultimately, we chose to sync the camera with Sharad’s emotional state — the way he thinks and perceives the world. I took inspiration from the likes of Tarkovsky’s Stalker (1979; cinematographed by Alexander Knyazhinsky) where the camera movement is unobtrusive and creates a sensation that something is going on that we are yet to understand. (Michal Sobocinski)[1]

    Throughout the scene the audience experiences the inner conflict of the protagonist, and is held captive by the probing camera and the nature of the raag, which has a strong sense of seeking and pathos. The effective use of an evocative classical rendering in a film reminds me of Bade Ghulam Ali Khan’s rendering in the iconic lovemaking scene with the song ‘Prem jogan ban ke’ in Mughal-e-azam (1960). Except that, in The Disciple, the protagonist is trying to reach his beloved in vain. Midway through the raag the protagonist loses himself and walks out of the hall, and we are left with murmurs from the audience. That sudden walk out and interruption in the raag helps the audience of the film feel the chaos within the protagonist and effectively conveys his inner state of being.

    The scene then cuts to black and silence. A long while later, we hear the reassuring rhythm of a train and the sweet giggles of a child; sounds that appear to emerge from the dak night of the soul. The image that fades in from black shows us that the protagonist has made his choice — he has accepted his mediocrity as an artist and stepped down from the high goal that he had set out for, encouraged by Mai. He has instead accepted the mundane bliss of married life. We are then led to a scene of a small gathering and stage quite like a concert hall but a bit smaller. This time, though, the occasion is the protagonist’s book launch, rather than his music concert. We enter this scene with the audience clapping on the soundtrack. This helps to subconsciously make the audience feel a sense of victory and acceptance for the protagonist.

    Immediately following this, however, we have the last scene in which the film concludes with our protagonist back in the train, this time with his family sitting opposite him and him witnessing a singing folk street singer begging for alms. If I were to analyze the visual dimension of the scene and compare it with the first shot and scene of the film, it strikes me that now the protagonist does not have the symbolic object of his beloved (music), which was the tanpura, but is empty handed and instead observing a street player who now has the musical instrument. So, for me it is a story of lost love, there is still a longing for the beloved but the reality of life stares at him and he is coming to terms with it. The protagonist has not achieved the goal he set out to achieve as a traditional performing artist, but inspired by the lofty ideals of his guru, Mai, he stands at a distance and admires the beloved (music) knowing that he will never be one with her. So, there is a longing and pain but not a defeat. And instead of self-destruction there is acceptance.

    The film ends on a poetic note. Decoding the lyrics of the folk song sung by the musician in the train might yet again open another dimension to the theme of the film.

    Oh, Seeker! Artist
    At the edge of a well, oh seeker I sowed a tamarind seed
    At the edge of a well, oh seeker I sowed a tamarind seed
    The tree sprouts fish Artist
    And casts a fine shade Artist
    At the edge of a well, oh seeker
    At the edge of a well, oh seeker
    A deer was wed Artist
    At the edge of a well, oh seeker, oh seeker
    She gave birth to five fawns Artist
    At the edge of a well, oh seeker Artist

    The beauty of the film I feel lies in the fact that it juxtaposes the old and the new and in that it questions their values and principles and asks the audience to introspect. I think it helps discuss many dimensions of the ancient and modern. For one it helps put a spotlight on how art is taught and received. And it’s nice to spare a thought to the film’s title — The Disciple. The film revolves around five generations of the guru shishya parampara (student-teacher tradition) shown in the four relationships — one being the protagonist and his students, second being the protagonist and his guru, third being the protagonist and his father (revealed in  flashback and showing the unsuccessful attempts of his father at attaining excellence), and the fourth being the father and his guru Mai, who in turn is also the protagonist’s guru as he listens to her recorded speeches and is inspired by them (Mai is presented as a powerful force in the film and is the most enlightened).

    The Disciple introduces us for the most part to the practice in Indian classical music of the guru being  not just a teacher for a few hours providing a service in exchange for money but as an imparter of knowledge gained through personal experience and handed down from one generation to the next (This comes to a full stop with the protagonist, who is instead a teacher in a music-school setup). The student in turn looks up to the guru as a father figure and feels obliged to care and look after him. Of course, this kind of dependence traditionally could lead to the guru taking undue advantage of the student and could lead to exploitation. However, the main narrative of the film deals with the relationship of the protagonist and his guruji, played brilliantly by Arun Dravid, a respected classical Indian musician himself, and the film draws a delicate balance in this equation. The guru in this case is not exploitative but vulnerable and old, and there is a bond of genuine concern and respect. Personally, for me, the film besides mirroring the journey of an artist could also be an opportunity for the audience to examine a dying tradition of the guru shishya parampara and question the new environment and approach to teaching in contemporary India.

    That such a film was made free from the constraints of commerce and entertainment goes a long way in favour of art and the artist (Tamhane). Kudos too to the Producer (Vivek Gomber) and Executive Producer (Alfonso Cuaron) for being a rock support to such sincere subjects. The subject, its treatment and it coming to life is inspiring for artists like me to continue treading on the path and discovering for ourselves the delicate balance between our material self and the higher self, and completing our own unique love story.

     

    [1]Kuzma, Darek. Interview of Michal Sobocinski. Cinematography World. January 2021. Artist

     

    See also — a review of The Disciple by Dnyanesh Moghe Artist

    https://filmcriticscircle.com/journal/the-disciple/

  • Anita — systematically dressed in the regime of the traditional idiom

    Anita — systematically dressed in the regime of the traditional idiom

    Review of Anita — a short fiction film written/directed by Sushma Khadepaun

    Karl Jaspers defines boundary situations in which real situations become all-encompassing or transcendental situations. Gilles Deleuze in his Cinema books, pronounces limit-images as Jasperian boundary situations in which a situation or action becomes transcendental. Situation and actions resolve into one another to form the continuity of movement i.e. the cinematograph: a writing with movement and sounds.

    It is curious to think about the relationship between faciality (ie the use of the face by the actor) and limit-images and how they contribute to one another. The transcendental film-makers (like Yasujiro Ozu) emphasise a single, static expression on the face of the actor so as to emphasise the sthayi-bhava or established emotion of the shot. Contrarily the neo-realist film makers, Satyajit Ray being the chief case here, emphasise the close-up to capture a transformation in expression in the face of the actor.

    I wish to emphasise two spirals of consciousness through which the action-image; where the character is forced to act, suggests. The ascending spiral leads to a dissolution of the Self (sattva), whereas the descending spiral leads to pathology (tamas). In Sushma Khadepaun’s Anita this approach to the Self single-handedly encompasses the spiritual and pathological.

    The film begins with the shot of the modern protagonist entering the feudal space. Both Anita and Vikram are held together in the same frame. As they chant the words of the aarti, we see all the characters holding a single facial expression.

     The feudal space appropriates the role of the woman as to beget offspring whereas the modern space emphasise a split into people (irrespective of gender) as  having jobs and not having jobs. This produces the fundamental question of Anita: is the function of the woman to be equal to the man; or is it to be an agent of patriarchy?

    This rift between tradition and modernity produces images of pure time since the sensory-motor link that binds movement together have been broken by a problem. This problem is not the Deleuzean crisis in representation following the Holocaust but a historical situation in which the role of the woman has transformed in a patriarchy that is not open to movement. Mani Kaul’s argument is primarily that this rift creates a collapse between a spatio-temporal object and its socio-historical context, giving way to a new object. What is Khadepaun’s view on this spatio-temporal object?

    Khadepaun’s visuals emphasise theatricality along with mirrors as splitting the actual into the virtual. Mirrors also emphasise the formation of the Self as an understanding of One-self as Other. Anita and Vikram are seen in the same mirror in the opening sequence: equi-distant virtual images of one another. The transformation-of-the-object is seen in the final sequence where Vikram is in the real time-image regime whereas Anita is still in the virtual. Khadepaun’s film does not function through shot counter-shot. Instead she emphasises a master shot isolating Anita in the reverse shot. This emphasis on resemblance (Vikram and the patriarchal father look similar) is countered by a divergent dialogue which refuses to admit the new formation; i.e. women in the work space as being equal to men.

    Anita is systematically dressed in the regime of the traditional idiom and then is stripped of this coding until she is eventually sexual abducted. The film uses shot counter shot only to emphasise regimes of patriarchy and the isolated woman. Very often the patriarch and mother figure are placed in the same frame to emphasise how older women are also agents of patriarchy. Modernity is the purely temporal outside that appears to enter the logic of the imbalanced development of the feudal. The question is not of the non-resemblance between a spiritual and material problem but about how a material problem and its imbalanced growth create a spiritual progression through the cinematograph.

    This “spiritual progression” is represented by the shot of the gaseous perception following the abduction  scene to emphasise a dissolution of the Self. The Big Other has been violated in the pathological descending regime of the action-image (tamas) whilst the cinematograph has created a disappearance of the Self so that there is no centre or periphery.

    The iconic closing sequences set to the wedding song emphasise the nature of kitsch as being everyday violence crystallised into sounds best represented by popular Hindi cinema. Khadepan returns her protagonist back to the theatre of mommy-daddy-me from the desiring production of the purely cinematographic; until we see a transformation in the actor’s expression to show a transformation of the object whist she is as yet static.

  • Kalsubai — the opening up of the Id

    Kalsubai — the opening up of the Id

    Shot in a vertical aspect ratio, Yudhajit Basu’s Kalsubai attempts a layering of consciousness that is, at base, hierarchical. The shot, which is between the ‘On’ and ‘Off’, gestures on the recording button on the camera and is a rhizomatic construct i.e., it connects one middle to the next middle. Basu’s attempt however is to challenge this rhizomatic construct and to instead open up a layering of consciousness that is, at base, phallic.

    Kalsubai the goddess of the Mahadeo Koli people is the subject of the film. The mise en scène is so constructed that the primordial consciousness is the id, the unconscious that manifests itself as the ego of the subject Goddess. The structuring of the Self is as a tree and not as a rhizome. The vertical aspect ratio also helps one to see the frame’s matching with the expansion of consciousness, as the film progresses.

    There are two aspects to cinema. One is the Open construct that allows space and time to be dis-closed. At the same time the voice over suggests the second aspect of the construct of cinema i.e., the Outside represented as thought i.e., through the voice over. Basu manifests the social anima by having only women as subjects praying to the Goddess figure materialised as an idol in the color red. The mountain formation is the face that simultaneously is symbolic of layers of consciousness in the phallus. Simultaneously, the film uses the Earth as geographical formations for the mechanic assemblage, represented by the windmills. The image literally meets its shadow as the passing of the shadow, as the subject represents this Earth as feminine. Cinema is not consciousness but its container.

    The film, as pointed out above, is middle to middle through the relationship between the ‘before’ and the ‘after’ that opens up to time i.e., the time of succession. This before and after is made possible through the middle i.e., the rhizome. However, Basu seems to be interested in the beginning and the end and not the middle. The beginning and end represent a theological approach to the Self, whereas the middle-to-middle structure of the rhizome represent the logical positivism that is manifest as science. The animals are represented before their sacrifice as Event, whilst the repetitive chants in praise of the Goddess represent the everyday.

    Ritual and sacrifice form a dialectic with the everyday that produce the dialectic between pre-emption and delay i.e., chhanda. This metre or chhanda is matched pictorially to represent the opening up of the subconscious as a tree that signifies layers of consciousness. In other words, the aspect ratio is the index of consciousness. The perception is solid, causing a centering of both the Subject i.e., Goddess Kalsubai as well as the spectator (the Big Other), such that the spectator can emphasise freewill to will the shot. In this way, the film does not produce a quality of attention (dhyana) through metaphysics but resolves its subject-object dichotomy through the historicism of space as dialectic.

     

    Kalsubai made its world premiere at the Visions Du Réel Film Festival. It recently won the Grand Online Prize of the City of Oberhausen at the 67th International Short Film Festival Oberhausen.

     

  • Joji — a comparative study of four Macbeth inspirations

    Joji — a comparative study of four Macbeth inspirations

    Joji — a comparative study of four Macbeth inspirations

    Literary works provide off-the-shelf fast food in the pecking order for film makers to ply their trade when writers’ block bite them. However, a majority of these “inspired” adaptations by filmmakers have always been a tricky and tacky proposition. Only a very few stay true to the text to the ‘T’ and covet the author’s as well as the audiences’ appreciation. The rest simply revel in making suitable — often-times, obnoxious — departures, retaining just a sliver of the original, and invoking disdain and depreciation; the individuals behind such are primarily motived to stamp their individuality on the “inspired” version rather than do due justice to the original and its larger thematic trajectory.

    One may well argue that it is the filmmaker’s prerogative on how to interpret the text in a manner that they feel is best to trigger its visual retelling in the film form. True. One certainly has to concede a person’s artistic freedom in giving vision to the text and theme at hand. However, simply retaining the kernel of an otherwise classical literary work, glibly garnishing the film to suit the maker’s febrile interpretation is not a done thing nor can one condone such an attempt; nothing can be more insulting and demeaning than that to the author, dead or alive, as also the audiences who place implicit trust on the director to come up with an honest and decent job. That unfortunately, and woefully, has been the case with the Bard of Avon William Shakespeare’s very many plays. Not that the revered Indian epics The Ramayan and The Mahabharat have not fallen prey to puerile, pitiable and pathetic renditions primarily pandering to the baser instincts of mass audiences to have cash registers clinking.

    Shakespeare must have turned in his grave every time there was an Indian version of his play, Macbeth in this case. Until of course, director Dileesh Pothan and screenwriter Syam Pushkaran’s “inspired” and inventive Joji joined the scroll of filmmakers by interpreting the bard’s play to a delectable and ensemble effect.  The film’s producer and lead actor, Fahad Faazil, who says it is “not a direct version of Macbeth, but one inspired by its theme,”[1] puts up a bravura performance, making Joji a pleasurable, engaging experience.

    On the international scene, there have been at least six international adaptations /inspirations of the nearly 415 years old play by various directors in the last five years itself — Macbeth (2015 and 2018), Lady Macbeth (2016), Ghost Light(2018), and Stained (2019). The latest is one in the making by one of the Cohen brothers, titled The Tragedy of Macbeth. Additionally, auteurs such as Orson Welles, Akira Kurosawa and Roman Polanski too have brought out their own versions.

    In India in the near past, Vishal Bharadwaj foisted Maqbool (Hindi), Jayaraj made the grandiloquent martial art epic Veeram (Malayalam), and Abhaya Simha came out with a modern day rendition, Paddayi (Kannada). But the “tragedy” of gargantuan proportions is that none of these three versions flatter to deceive. The emphasis by these three directors on overtly sexual, explicit body show and lust play with overzealous pursuit of the sex quotient rather than on a subtle, serious and sober look at how overarching avarice, ambition, and guilt, leading to penitence spell doom for the murderous person and his co-conspirator makes one roil at the respective director’s audaciousness to alter the text to their whimsy fancies.

    In fact, a cursory revisit of Shakespeare’s Macbeth would reveal that the playwright has never overtly or covertly dwelt upon lust or sexual trysts as a trigger.  The text only bespeaks of the prophesy of three witches — an opportunistic, over-zealous wife girding the protagonist to a greedy, ambitious action that brings about the doom, and death, of both once their conscience is stricken with guilt and remorse at their deed. This essentially is what the play is all about.

    These three Indian filmic adaptations /inspirations have done away with witches per se but not the occult or oracle portions that are perfunctory to the pursued plotline. Bhardwaj transposes the witches as corrupt, gun-toting, trigger happy buffoonery horoscope-reading cops. Jayaraj conveniently supplants them with exploitative, naked, nubile virginal lasses. And Simha invokes the local Bootha Kola spirit to tastefully deliver the prophesy, in keeping with the local cultural and folklore traditions.

    Since Pothan-Pushkaran’s version is a modern day one that speaks of a family’s expectation of ancestral property, the witches and oracle bit has not been included. Instead the film concentrates on the scheming persona and inner psyche of people populating the household, and shows how greed could stir up even the most lethargic male into affirmative, destructive action.

    Though Simha says “it is not necessary to be honest to the text, but be honest to the life being represented,”[2] his version too, like those of Bharadwaj and Jayaraj have conveniently not included the non-sellable parts of Macbeth.Instead, the trio sex up their respective films with sultriness, and the sensual play is of eyeball-popping proportions, and have stooped to tasteless vulgarity, besmirching the film’s rendition of the tragic play.

    Bhardwaj dresses up Maqbool with an illicit comeuppance cupid-play between the protagonist and a girl married to an aged man. Jayaraj has two nymphets pleasuring and goading his protagonist to avaricious action that could pass off as semi-porn. Simha, on his part, while faithfully retaining the original kinship of a newlywed couple, conveniently spices things up with their sensuous love play and body show in addition to bawdy dialogues, to supplant the film’s amorous quotient. He further embellishes it with needless eroticism — the wife enamoured by a Dubai scent that sends her into ecstatic, esoteric imaginations as an allegorical afterthought.

    Contrast this with the manner in which Pothan has constructed a subtle, understated, unwritten, undercurrent sexual frisson between the protagonist and his sister-in-law sans indulgent physicality. The duo’s matter-of-fact encounters, predominantly in the kitchen, with the man gorging on her cooked meals in no way vitiates the viewer’s aesthetic experience.

    While the trio have taken to a highly stylised, violent and bloody narrative structure in keeping with the general ambience that their respective films have been set in,  Pothan has eschewed such overt, visual exhibitionism and has in a minimalist manner rendered his version in a more relatable and realistic sedate tale of destructive greed, which is what Shakespeare’s Macbeth is essentially about.

    The films of the trio, unlike that of Pothan, have over-the-top situations. Bharadwaj locates his version in the familiar corruptive Mumbai underworld with its scheming dons, their lieutenants, rivalries, and bloody gang war, and two cops as convenient cogs to oil and grease the gangland warfare. Jayaraj is set in13th Century Kerala to the backdrop of Kalaripayattu (traditional martial warfare) warrior characters drawn from Kerala folklore. Simha sets his version in the high tide sea-washed shores of Mangaluru and the fishing community, the fishing trawlers, and shows the business rivalry between contended traditionalists and the money-minded mechanized owners.

    Pothan has situated Joji in the familiar everyday setting of a joint family in which the disciplinarian and doughty patriarch is robust as ever and still building his biceps. Despite his failing health, he defies death, and stands rock solid between the expectations of some of his offspring and the inheritance that would change their lives for the better.

    In terms of subtlety, Joji scores high; the characters convey their emotions through nuanced body language as they go about their daily chores in a mundane manner. Bharadwaj, Jayaraj and Simha, on the other hand, take recourse to embellishing their respective versions with seduction, incest, salaciousness, and needless bloodletting; none of which in any way justifies Shakespeare’s play of royal subterfuge of vaulting ambition and calamitous downfall.

    Therein lies the triumph of Pothan’s pure, fluid and fascinating Joji over the other three lavish productions whose directors concentrated more on vacuous atmospherics, wanton theatrics and audacious adult play than on getting into the pith of Shakespearean’s tragic, political and moralistic royal drama, whose primary import is that greed and vaulting ambition can bring upon one’s ruin and downfall.

     

     

    [1]Newsd. Inspired by Macbeth but not an adaptation: Malayalam star Fahadh Faasil on Joji. April 9, 2021.

    [2]Starbio. “How Paddayi director Abhaya Simha worked with Mogaveera fishing community in Karnataka”. November 29, 2018.

     

  • Requiem — a sculpture commemorating one of India’s earliest women photographers

    Requiem — a sculpture commemorating one of India’s earliest women photographers

    Reminiscence of how REQUIEM came to be

    I dreamt that Ma and I were stranded in a rocky barren landscape in the dead of night. It was pitch dark with no humans or illumination in sight. We were completely isolated from the world. Ma was whimpering in pain and crying for help. In my dream I knew that Ma was mortally sick and that I was not going to be able to save her because no vehicle could reach us over that rocky terrain. I awoke at this point and couldn’t sleep thereafter. Early in the morning I told my sister Yashodhara about my dream. She was silent for a while and then said reflectively: We have done a lot in Baba’s name, but nothing for Ma.

    I was suddenly wracked with guilt. [highlight background=”#f79126″ color=”#ffffff”]All Ma had wanted was an exhibition[/highlight] of her photographs (she was one of India’s earliest known women photographers) and despite my best efforts I had not been able to organize a show till then. And I had no idea when that exhibition would become a reality. I needed to do something NOW to regain my lost equilibrium. But I had no idea what that something could be. I prayed for inspiration and it came to me one morning as I was walking on the Bandstand Promenade.

    Manobina Roy with her camera, photographed by Bimal Roy

    Why not put up a sculpture in her memory on the Promenade? Without wasting a minute I got in touch with our old friend Arup Sarbadhikary who was the Chairman of the Bandra Bandstand Residents Trust (BBRT). It was BBRT that maintained the Promenade and had the final say in all matters connected with it. I explained my idea to Arupda. He was a little cautious in the beginning and said BBRT would consider this after seeing an image of the proposed sculpture. So now I had to find a sculptor. I immediately thought of Viswabharati University established by Nobel laureate Rabindranath Tagore in Shantiniketan. Their Fine Arts Department was still considered to be one of the best in the country and Ma had a great affinity for Shantiniketan. It was a winning combination. I had recently met two talented and successful alumni from Shantiniketan, a husband and wife duo, Samit Das and Mithu Sen. I asked Samit to recommend someone suitable for this project and he promptly gave me the names and numbers of two sculptors he thought would be best suited for this job. After seeing the work of both I opted for Tanmay Banerjee whose work I found to be very gentle and calming, just right for a sculpture dedicated to Ma.

    But by now I was getting a little edgy because I was flying to the US on 10th May and had to complete the project before I left. Tanmay had already told me that casting a new sculpture from scratch would take 6 months. So that was out. I had to choose to duplicate an existing sculpture because he had the mould for it. And it would be ready in a month which would fit into our timeline. I showed an image of the proposed sculpture to the BBRT members and they approved instantly. But where to place it on the Promenade for maximum effect. BBRT member Benny came up with the perfect spot. I had to pay for it but there was no way I could have got such a beautiful location for love or money anywhere else. Now to tackle my charming and eccentric architect Alan Abraham to come up with a design for the base. This appeared to be the most difficult task of all. He insisted it shouldn’t have a base at all. My instant reaction was to tell him that it would look like part of Michael Jackson’s music video of Thriller where zombies are trying to claw their way out of the ground. He was not amused. We finally reached a compromise. He agreed to make it half the height I wanted.

    I decided on the auspicious day of Akshay Trittiya April 28th for the unveiling. After much deliberation I invited my cousin Chitra Dasgupta from Delhi to do the honours—She is 82 and the oldest cousin from Ma’s side—and my grand niece Rajlakshmi Sengupta to sing for Ma because she sings like an angel. I also asked Hindustani Classical vocalist Shoma Ghosh to sing songs from Banaras because that is where Ma grew up. The ceremony took place at sunset against the backdrop of the sea. It was pure magic. And of course nothing is complete for the Roys unless we feed our guests. Since food is not allowed on the Promenade I requested my dear friends the Gandhys to host the high tea in the garden of Kekee Manzil their spectacular mansion by the sea.

    Photo: Usha Bhende

    In retrospect I think Ma was orchestrating the whole event because everything fell into place seamlessly to make it near perfect. [highlight background=”#f79126″ color=”#ffffff”]Ma was a free soul and loved nature.[/highlight] And she loved Bandra too. What could be a more fitting tribute than a piece of sculpture by the sea on the Bandra Promenade? I named the sculpture REQUIEM and my heart swells in gratitude every time I catch sight of it. It will outlive me and my siblings but Ma’s name etched on the site, will be seen by future generations and live on forever.

     

    Requiem is a sculpture erected at Bandra on April 28, 2017.
In memory of Late Manobina Roy, a pioneer woman photographer in India,
and the spouse of legendary filmmaker Bimal Roy.

Ms. Manobina Roy's photographs were finally exhibited. Recently.
They are presently the talk of the art world.

     

  • Pebbles

    Pebbles

    Set in the location-space that is the village of Arittapatti in Tamil Nadu, Pebbles (Koozhangal) immediately establishes the Oedipal relationship between the chain smoking, drunk Ganpathy and his son. The two take a bus ride together, the view of the window of which emphasises the cinematographic screen that is between the love-hate relationship between director, audience and actor; whilst at the same time making the actor the agent of the empty signifier (MacGuffin) that carries the film forward.

    The film uses imagery inspired from video gaming with each character being followed by the steadicam. Very often the steadicam pans away from the character to allow the audience to project thought onto the imaginary. Between the vignettes are tableaux shots that reduce the plane of the image to a single dimension, i.e. intensity. The top angle shot towards the end transforms this intensity into a geographical location, so that the purpose of cinema, according to this writer, is simply for a body to occupy space.

    The land of the location-space represents the masculine qualities of violence and patriarchy, making the mother-figure i.e. Ganapathy’s wife the ellipse in the film.The bus itself is a medium of slowness. During the bus ride Ganpathy participates in the transactional nature of the everyday (by purchasing a ticket) whereas his son is much more interested in the sensorial potentialities of the space, denoted by the shot of him blowing the balloon.

    Film maker P.S. Vinothraaj uses the point-of-view shot to connect different characters as the camera follows them much like in a video game. The point-of-view shot denotes a perceptional consciousness i.e. that of wakefulness; whilst the characters appear at rest, in motion or static in a moving vehicle. The film’s cinematography is reminiscent of Gus Van Sant’s Elephant, but is different in one respect. Whereas Elephant centres on the high-school shooting as key event, Pebbles creates vignettes around the notion of the absence of the event.

    This creates for a unique feminist approach to film making in which presence is suggested by absence i.e. the absence of the mother and of a central event. This feminist approach is underlined in the final sequence of the film, in which the anima is represented by the puddle of water in the parched landscape. The character uses the pot to collect this feminist consciousness, an agglomeration of consciousness just like the film is an agglomeration of time; whereas cinema itself is the pot itself i.e. the container for consciousness.