Doubting the woman

French auteur Jean Luc Godard once quipped, "Cinema doesn't query the beauty of the woman, it only doubts her heart". Can we replace 'Cinema' with 'Society' here?  Molly Haskell argued in her ground-breaking From Reverence to Rape: The treatment of women in the Movies (1974)--"Film reflects the ideological and social construction of women who are either revered as the virgin or reviled (as the whore)."  From time immemorial, the patriarchal society marks the meaning and the importance of the female in her association with the male. This lack of identification has been central in the prevalent phallo-centric society which perceives ‘male’ as physically and symbolically dominant over ‘female’. So it never comes as a surprise that a woman who is beautiful, confident and desiring will be trampled aside by an unprepared society.

The entire preamble is with respect to a small video clip which was on youtube for sometime, ripped off the site pretty hastily but ensuring that flocks of people got the chance to treasure it in their personal chest. The clip in question here is from the film Chatrak (Mushroom, 2011) by the Sri-Lankan director Vimukthi Jayasundara. The clip depicts oral sex between Paoli and her co-star where she as the character is the pleasure seeker instead of being the giver. There had been a flurry of debates – in the newspapers, on the web, to the extent atleast 5 of my friends who happened to be middle-class educated Bengalis whispered over phone or in real – “Paoli Dam er porno ta dekhechho? Na thakle debo, ache amar kachhe” (in English it means “Have you seen the porno of Paoli Dam? If you don’t have I can give, I have it”). Interestingly the advertent friend-list included members of both the genders. It was rather interesting as to how inexplicably worried they are about the actress, Paoli Dam in this case – “what is she upto? Ruining her image for some Sri-Lankan director?” Few suggested that they are fine if it is in a ‘foren’ movie with ‘gora’ actors in it!

            So where does it all fall through? I happened to read one of the crudest interviews of Paoli last week in a leading Bengali daily on this where she was repeatedly asked by the dumb-ass reporter if she considers this as a porno act or not. This is quite funny, if cinema is to entertain and if pornography does entertain a big section of the ‘normal’ populace then who cares? It is probably the nostalgia-overdosed Bengali psyche which is still trying to find comfort in its sepia slumber – so much so that the realities of life hits hard. Paoli is an intelligent actress, Bengal’s face to world cinema – her range of portrayals is unparallel and beyond question. She is sensible enough to realize that had it been a rape scene of equal or even more exposition of the female body, then also it could have been logically justified (though the physical representation would have still raised issues – remember Seema Biswas in Sekhar Kapoor’s Bandit Queen); but the Bengali middle-class just cannot digest a naked woman almost demanding sexual pleasure and favour from her partner on screen.

            The controversy and explicit nature of the particular scene will ensure that the film will be heavily censored in India – probably the festival circuit will get to see it in full. Hence, the film is successful in creating the necessary hoopla to sail it across – whether this publicity was intended or not still remain doubtful though.  

            Paoli Dam as an actress will be having the Bengali middle-class eating out of her palms now. She threw them a challenge – ‘you have been fantasizing for so long for my mute body and now I shed off the last thread for you, your fantasies are dampened by the specificity of the bare physical torso’. 

The clumsy mind of the society at large should retreat and bow to Paoli, the soul of the ‘woman’ remains as ever – untouched.

Charlie cannot cry

"I always like walking in the rain, so no one can see me crying." – thus spoke Charles Spencer Chaplin, the greatest entertainer of all times.  He later added, “Humour is a gentle and benevolent custodian of mind which prevents us from being overwhelmed by the apparent seriousness of life.” This is the single-most important reason why the films of Charlie Chaplin have been endearing to people – differed by gender, caste, colour, nationality, religion, age and what not. Charlie Chaplin is that ray of hope to the struggling individual, that rainbow he can look up to forget his drudgeries. Chaplin – his image of the tramp is an icon, a harbinger of hope and wish-fulfilment in this apparently chaotic existence. There had been few films that have been made on him or characters shadowing on him. A relatively young phenomenon is to use Charlie impersonators for comic relief in parties and functions. So now, you go to a birthday bash, and no wonder you will be greeted at the gate by none other than Charlie. Just almost! In Kolkata atleast, it has become a profession of making up like Charlie and then engaging kids (and adults also at times) with the same gag-antics that you can expect. Like always, they all are Charlie Chaplin to us – we never care to dig behind and find who are they – the actors who make Chaplin so gleefully immortal in this part of the globe as well?

Anindya Bandyopadhyay’s Bengali film Chaplin is based on the life of one such impersonator – Banshi Das. Banshi calls himself ‘artist’, lives in obvious dilapidated conditions with his seven year old son but with loads of fun and frolic. Banshi works in a group where there are musicians who are booked for packaged entertainment in parties. Banshi adds colour – he does a Charlie! The film tries to depict a colony life with some care which is bustling with activities. There are these easily identifiable ‘bad men’ who are by default affluent and prosperous. Then there is this angelic Rina didi who drives a Honda, teaches in the colony school and makes sure Banshi makes it to the audition.  All these wrapped in melodrama and sentimental overtures. Almost always there is this sad, melancholy tune as background soundscape – what it actually does is, mutes few of the relevant teary sequences due to overuse and also renders the few songs in the film absolutely unnoticed.

Till the intermission the film sets up the score with fond exchanges between the father and the son. It seems too hackneyed at times though, and with repetitions the cause isn’t helped either. There are so many epic films on this special relationship so it’s important that you know what exactly your scope is. The director unfortunately isn’t sure of it ever. Thus came the climax after the intermission where we come to know that the son has brain tumour and he will die shortly. However, since Banshi got through to the finals of a reality show, the show must go on. This again rots from being predictable. The tragedy of Nimua, Banshi’s son somehow rips the film’s sensitive possibilities. Instead, it becomes the normal Bengali tear-jerkers. Or probably marginally better.

It’s marginally better because of Rudranil Ghosh who gives in a lifetime performance. His flights from pensive ruminations to joyous masking is a treat to watch. He and his gags at times look tired and out-of-ideas – not because he as an actor is such, more because his director fails him. In the final audition sequence as well as in the last performance in the abandoned cinema hall on Nimua’s birthday,  Rudranil as Charlie (and not Banshi) lighted the hearts of the audience. He seldom gets character roles to tap his latent talent which is a misfortune for the industry. Had he been born some fifty years ago, there is no doubt that he could have rubbed shoulders in the same league as the legendary Rabi Ghosh.

Charlie Chaplin’s most films promote the unvanquished – the triumph of will to overturn any trouble or hardship in life. It is irony, a film made on a character who takes up Charlie to impersonate is laden with so much casual sentiments. This is such a defeating philosophy that the film is not saved. We as audience should have left for our homes celebrating the triumph of life rather than in pensive forgiving of destiny. Even if Banshi cries, Charlie never cries, he cannot cry. If the director only knew it!

The unbearable heaviness of soul

‘12 persons, 12 sms-es and 12 months’ reads the poster of new Bengali film Urochithi (dir: Kamaleshwar Mukherjee).  The film starts and ends with a year in between for protagonist Aniket, a corporate slogger. No one actually counts if there are 12 sms-es in all but you can rely on the director for this. But definitely the 11 persons who come close to Aniket shape him and control him to an extent. Too many people you may think cramped in the film – reason why few of them remain half-cooked and vague. For example Rohit – the financial advisor of Aniket or the prophetic teacher Farhad play to the gallery with philosophical overtures but being unconvincing.  The father, a botanist by choice who stayed for long in the UK and then returned to run an old-age home is similarly lacking proper justification apart from a climactic sequence where Aniket was amorously involved with Lilette, the air-hostess when the father passed away.

            However, the triumph of the film is in the depiction of Aniket’s character. This is a person here, who is fatigued to meet his corporate deadlines and presentations and tries to give a fresh look at his life now. Just rounding near the 40ish age group Aniket is confused. The turmoil in the share market adds to his misery, and he finds solace in the arms of Lilette.  Aniket is the face of Bengali urban youth – for whom even sky is not the limit, he flies higher up and is lost in the whirl. Aniket, apparently has all an upwardly mobile Bengali middle-class man aspires for – a caring wife, a doting daughter, a decorated home and a Maruti car. But deep within there is an artificiality of this pomp, a superficial veneer to the haphazard ensemble called life. It’s the passion to rekindle hope for one’s own self and the others round him or her which is so haplessly missing in the lives of the urban corporate that it follows the Aesopian ways – grass is always greener on the other side. Aniket hence lights up fire in his hit-up with Lilette ignoring his wife who is burdened now with the household chores. In some very smart moves the director bares us with the impertinence of these so-called relations – Lilette once asks Aniket ‘What you want” to which he replies “To be with you” and she reverts “No, to sleep with me”. Lilette goes along saying that the body is not so important probably. But can body be isolated from the soul? Probably not. And that is why we find her in love with him – and understand how helpless the individuals are in controlling their mind and their decisions. Near the end of the film where Lilette confesses she has HIV+, Tanusree Chakraborty as Lilette caresses us with her deep sense of loss and longing and her plea “Baba-r kachhe jabo” (“I will visit my father”). Though the environment and the magnitude are different yet somewhere suddenly Komal Gandhar’s Neeta comes up to us. They are separated by decades and conditions, yet they are harmonious in their wish to live life. Seeing Aniket break down Lilette justifies vehemently “Don’t worry, we used condoms”. Is this the urban fallacy – Aniket breaks even more because she is his hope, his only sense of joy in his claustrophobic life?

            Kevin, played by Rudraneil and his fashion designer partner played by Sudipta are the foils to Aniket’s life, his mentors to the other world. Like most of his peers in real life as well, Aniket is un-introduced to this world of booze, drugs and glam girls. He loses him, spends money and becomes emotionally bankrupt apart from the fact that he finds Lilette here only.

            Then there are the typical colleagues – two in this case who wear masks of good and evil? Manish who appears to be rebel in the organization (as opposed to Aniket who is more of a diffident), turns out to be a manipulator who power trips others towards his personal promotion. Shalini, Aniket’s sultry boss on the other is a victim of corporate cauldron though her character swing was too much to take in the end where she seems emotionally overt for Aniket.

            Suhas and Sudha – the other couple in the film tread the line of existence which often tends to be portrayed in a melodramatic way. It is to the credit of the director and Biswanath who plays Suhas that the characters remain grounded. Grounded in misery, in living a rudderless life, a life where money only talks. In this fast changing urban world of multiplexes and flyovers, of malls and glamour girls what happens to the factory worker whose factory shuts down? What happens to the hawker who wakes up at 4 in the morning and prepares his business? We ignore them largely; we choose not to look at those lives since till now their lives prick us somewhere.  The day they will just pass in front of our eyes like walking mannequins, we will fit in unobtrusively to the life depicted in advertisement hoardings!

            Suhas is close to heart for being simple, for being honest and not because he is a ‘defeated’ individual but more because he takes life head on with his meager means. And who is Aniket? Aniket is as much me as any one else. Kamaleshwar Mukherjee succeeds in putting across this all-encompassing feeling of loss and longing, his Aniket represents the vacuous existence of the so called corporate professionals. Indraneil as Aniket is good. Srilekha his wife moves effortlessly to put across her traumas and her island world. Biswanath as Suhas is one high point in the film who will keep you sore with his seeming nonchalance. Tanusree Chakraborty is a find. She is breathtaking as the glamourous air hostess. But she does show her acting talents in the end when she is sick. She has the looks to become a top-drawer, remains to be seen how she managers her career.

            UrochiThi is a good film. It’s crisp and yet it makes you laden with an unexplainable heaviness of soul. This is the director’s first film and hence it is apparent that he tries to punch in too many things and characters in one go. Few could have been dispensed with to make the film look petite. But none-the-less in the era of self indulging prophetic film makers, this film is for the urban mass that can surely recognize few of the characters. If, like this essayist, they come back in the comforts of their lonely zones to recapitulate their lives, the director’s purpose is fulfilled. Kamaleshwar raises hopes and we will surely look forward to his next work – for touching few chords in the soul and making us reflective.

The Prince

Growing up in the late seventies and early eighties in a middle-class Bengali family infested with academicians had its own share of mis-fortunes. One for sure was the lack of permission to watch Television. Forget the mugging of TV channels on today’s kids, back then, we had to rely on Mickey Mouse, occasional Kolkata league football match and yes, the Wednesday 8 PM Chitrahar. Rangoli was the other attraction a little later but at 7:30 AM on Sunday mornings it was never within our reach. We never had a TV of our own till the late eighties. In those momentous waits from one half hour Hindi song snippet to the next, sometime I happened to see a jumping man and a bewildered frenzied shout “Yahhooo”. No, I never could take it to my liking, then. But soon the voice became familiar and repetitive – the greatest Hindi playback singer to me, Mohd. Rafi. Rafi’s voice lingered then, and now, with so much pathos, brushes on my beaten soul with tender caress and leaves me wanting more. I could no longer accept anyone else – except quite a few of Mukesh’s glorious renditions of Raj Kapoor primarily and only a few of the versatile Kishore Kumar.  However, following the onscreen charismatic figure used to sway from Raj Kapoor to Dev Anand and even Guru Dutt, till it more or less steadied on that lanky jumping man with breath-taking ‘ruup’. How can a man be so handsome, I asked myself everytime I looked at him? In those pre-teen/teen age of stupidity and innocence, in falling in love and falling apart, Shammi Kapoor with his wild, beastly submission was just what I could never become.

I was growing up in strict Bengaliness, reading Tagore and the other great literary works of geniuses. Hindi cinema was a strict taboo – the only one that we saw as a child was Tapan Sinha’s Safed Hathi. So I had a flirting relationship with Shammi Kapoor – the Wednesday nights or the occasional Sunday mornings. My mates in school had taken onto the towering Amitabh Bachchan by then – reciting his famous lines from Zanjeer to Dewaar and laughing at my rather feminine prescription of the middle Kapoor. In Bengali cinema the options were limited to Uttam Kumar and Soumitra Chatterjee and I was heavily in for the latter. ‘How can you like that joker – who cannot stay still and yet like Soumitra Chatterjee’s Methodist acting and Satyajit Ray’s films?’ asked friends or seniors who took it upon them to “educate” me. I was perplexed as well. Is there any generic disorder in me – that I dreamt of wooing my girl in the lake singing ‘Diwana hua Badal’?  It soon became hence, the deep secret which I cherished and refused to open with. Long after I thank myself not to pursue academics to the extent of film schools – so much so that I can atleast confess my impish ga-ga over the “not-so-artistic” aspect of motion pictures.  That saved some self pity!

I was amazed to find so many people, friends and acquaintances on Facebook sharing Shammi Kapoor’s famous songs on their pages and walls after his demise. Wasn’t he a star half a century back who is up and packed for good for long? Probably yes. But in grief when there is need to be nostalgic to dig up finer moments and sunlights in one’s life I find people who were born decades after Shammi Kapoor gave his last box-office hit rake up the unforgettable ‘Dil dekhe dekho’ or a Teesri Manzil number or even the lyrical Rafi version of ‘Jindagi ek safar’ which soothes the soul so much even now. Does it mean there are certain things which are evergreen as they say? Or, may be classic, testing the sands of time?

I have not watched a Shammi Kapoor movie in ages. Nor do I have any in my possession now that I can embark on a nostalgia trail. But googling in Youtube I did happen to savour few of the enchanting pieces that are trademark his. The list that started with ‘Chahe koi mujhe Junglee kahe’, went on with ‘Dil dekhe dekho’, to the inimitable ‘Aaj kaal tere mere pyar’ (with Mumtaz), the stylistic ‘Badan pe sitare’ (with coy Vaijyantimala in Prince), the superlative numbers with a naïve Sharmila Tagore in Kashmir ki Kali and a slightly ripened her in An evening in Paris. To my surprise I realized few extremely poignant cinematography viz. the ending shot of ‘Yeh Chand Sa Roshan chehra’ where the silhouette of the encircling boats zeroing effortlessly on the couple symbolizing convergence of their love both mental and physical, the drama and sexual tension with Sadhna in ‘Dilruba dil pe tu’ from Rajkumar or the love-torn, confused and accommodating partner of Hema Malini in his one of the last films as hero in Andaaz.

Perhaps Shammi Kapoor was an actor with his limitations – he played mostly the affluent and the rich supplemented with his marked good looks (unlike Raj Kapoor who preferred plating the pauper), he used to jump all around and dance awkwardly to suit his supposedly incapacity to match Helen or the other dancing divas of the time (remember there used to be a lot of facial expressions and body gestures when he paired with them and not necessarily dancing in semblance). But above all, he exudes confidence and warmth which made him so endearing. He was never the biggest superstar – shadowed by the trio (of Raj Kapoor, Dev Anand and Dilip Kumar) in his early career and then swept off by the diminutive dynamite named Rajesh Khanna in the early seventies.

But to those, for whom cinema remains a mystery of light and shade, of larger projection of life with its vagaries, Shammi Kapoor and his histrionics will remain a source of entertaining energy. He forced us to believe that he actually meant ‘Dil use do jo jaan de de’- the Prince who was more than just a hero.

The ‘Death’s in Iti Mrinalini

Death is a paradox - it announces an absence yet it is profound and revered in religions. It is a bonding which marks a distance – between us and within us. This relativism of death makes it an abstraction of separation – intrigues longing and masquerades permanence.  Death therefore essentially links memories to absolutism and in turn rejects itself. In Hindu philosophy of re-birth and the circle (and cycle) of life, however, death is only a beginning of a new life and continuous in the cycle, and memoirs don’t hold much significance as such since anyway only the soul changes the body on rebirth –

“A man acts according to the desires to which he clings. After death he goes to the next world bearing in his mind the subtle impressions of his deeds; and after reaping there the harvest of his deeds, he returns again to this world of action. Thus, he who has desires continues subject to rebirth.”  Shukla Yajur Veda, Brihadaranyaka Upanishad (4.4.5-6)

Separation, absence, death and longing have been favourite subject amongst creative persons. From novelists, to poets, artists and film makers these have always been their subject of interest.  Arthur Koestler, noted author, wrote before his own suicide: "If the word death were absent from our vocabulary, our great works of literature would have remained unwritten, pyramids and cathedrals would not exist, nor works of religious art-and all art of religious or magic origin. " Or, the famous Norwegian artist Edward Munch accepted, “Without anxiety and illness I should have been like a ship without a rudder."

            In cinema as well, the concept of absence marked by death have been symbolic in representation. Ingmar Bergman is one such director who toyed with this idea of death in conjunction with religious metaphors, Michelangelo Antonioni on the other narrated death with non-communication and painted the canvas red. Back home Ray’s Apu Trilogy holds death in substance and as sustenance for life, Ghatak epitomized nostalgia as a death of self and persistence of memory. Aparna Sen’s last released film Iti Mrinalini (henceforth referred to as IM) dealing with death and its role as precursor of life in absence hence, is not a new or a striking endeavour. In this short scope we will try to see how death and absence played key roles in defining the philosophy of this narrative.

There are three physical deaths in the film – the one of Abhi, Mrinalini’s college boyfriend who was a Naxalite, in the later part that of her dresser Kamala and in between, her only daughter Sohini who died due to a plane accident. Of these, the first and the second mentioned here have been shown as incidents which have importance in Mrinalini’s life but just as a loss of a close acquaintance. The love relation with Abhi was so minimally shown on screen (apart from their dubious love-making scene) that it or he, never become important for our notice. On the contrary Kamala had been a steadfast support, muted in her presence yet meaningful in her duties. She for once at-least advised the young Mrinalini to give up her case with Siddhartha the married film director.
            The death of Sohini aka Sona – Mrinalini’s daughter with Siddhartha was a blow to love-torn Mrinalini. It took a screen time much longer, is set up poignantly and is sure to catch your heart. It follows the proverbial “five stages of grief” from Denial to Acceptance and is probably the ‘only’ natural instinct that any common audience can relate to (most of the others – the extra martial affairs and the mandatory heart-breaks therein due to peer rivalry etc can be dismissed by the general audience as something related to the ‘film world’ only). This is the phase where Chintan Nair, the novelist friend of Mrinalini plays the vital cog – he is a support one rarely finds in life.  Though, question can be raised whether he could have been the same if his wife is not crippled with Arthritis? If we choose to ignore that question, the loss of a child through accidental death put us to this death paradox. This loss, attenuated by a visit to the Nair-couple reach Mrinalini exactly where? From the narrative we come to know she left cinema after Satyajit Ray’s demise. How did she manage, cope and sustain life in between? Did she defeat it with her remembrances of her? This is all unknown. Cause Aparna Sen chose a jump from that time to the fateful night when she opens her life to herself and the box of pictures.

This is where the film started with - the fourth death. The death of self – the mind and the soul happened, it seems long back. With suicide, Mrinalini wishes to part with the mortal remains. It is interesting hence, on the eve of embarking to this journey better unknown to all, she herself tries to conquer death with her nostalgia. Is it a funeral to the self only since there is probably no one who will subvert Mrinalini’s absence in their lives by her joyful memories? It could well be.  The prelude and the establishing shots cannot but make the audience remember Max Ophuls’s Letter from an Unknown Woman (1948) – like Lisa (a charming Joan Fontaine), Mrinalini (a tired Aparna Sen) also pens her suicide note. We are soon riding the flashback train with Mrinalini’s nostalgia from the turbulent 70’s to her becoming a top actress and the controversies. Interspersed, the aged Mrinalini tears up each time the suicide note. This conquest of the desire to die is from within – helped by the pictures, paper cuttings which all bring in nostalgia.  However one observation can be – the emphasis of the screenplay to show Mrinalini as a victim. It can be argued, in few cases with her men, she was a ‘willing’ victim. This shallows the depth of her emotional turmoil with them or in-spite of them. Associating tragedy inflicted by patriarchy is such a clichéd currency that it seldom sells now. In the context of Indian cinema two films which come rightly in mind are Guru Dutt’s epic Kaagaz Ke Phool (1959) and Shyam Benegal’s Bhumika (1977). Even though Guru Dutt had harped on the longing bells to the extent of self-destruction and the death of a relationship (marital in this case), the film is a tribute to the cinema of the 40’s and 50’s of Bombay. Bhumika on the other hand is a cut-above representation of the early Indian film industry and a woman’s journey through it – tragic yet unrepentant.

The deaths hence of IM are laden with self-indulgence, big philosophies and prophecies. Somehow in between, life slipped through. This is the reason why the film and the deaths within it almost always fail to connect. The tragedy of absence – in individual and in collective society is narrated in thin air and dissolves. The final scene where we find Mrinalini deciding to forego her decision of suicide (since she got a message from Chintan that he is coming – for another philosophical journey?, may be) but eventually lying dead from a gunshot when night is killed by the morning Sun becomes trivial in interpretation.

Only the longing, the unending quest and the feeling of loss due to Sona’s death is so over-encompassing. How to give enough to those who survive, not for us only – the living but more so for those who are so ceremonious with their absence as well.  If only the film showed us some glimpse of this herculean journey of the unfortunate.

Delhi Belly – shit happens, on screen

A few weeks back I happened to watch Delhi Belly, a film that has supposedly taken the urban country by storm. I happened to laugh away, revere even a few aspects of it in the first count. But after a few days and analyzing it mentally, not all was amusing! Sharing my little disavowal of the ‘humour’ in Delhi Belly (referred as DB henceforth) and my cynicism in accepting it to be ‘outrageous and obnoxious for Indian audience’, left few of my friends sore. They all opined that I have lost it – that sense, what they coin as HUMOUR. Now I have matured enough now to understand that like many things, this sense is also subjective.  I have enjoyed Woody Allen in his relentless hovering in the New York streets, reveled in Vinay Pathak’s antics in the original Bheja Fry but somehow got stumped with the new Golmaal or Welcome.  I do admit hence, that my friends are not at fault, it’s just a sense of humour somehow that rings differently in the different minds

It becomes imperative on my part hence, to clarify my stance – what went wrong with me in the scope of accepting DB as a comedy and as pioneer amongst its peers.  And, possibly few generic musings. I have always believed that there should be an Indian film theory – a theory to understand the different variations within the same genre of Indian films. They are varied based on time, culture and geography. The concept of a pan-Indian audience was cooked, it never was, and the unity in diversity had always been political and less cultural. That is solely the reason I hated the trend that classified Hindi films churned out from Mumbai as “Indian” film. Which India, whose India do they represent? Aamir Khan being a supremely intelligent individual has consciously chosen and supported the subjects of his films that are specific in their charm. DB, for instance is a period film with a difference - it articulates the existence of contemporary times in an upwardly urban city-scape. 

That the film is ‘inspired’ by a host of Hollywood films (who cannot but relate the similes with Todd Phillips’ The Hangover), US tv sit-coms is stated in its texture. There is an interesting usage of a Rishi Kapoor dance number in the first scene and the mockery of it by Aamir’s item number in the end. Then there is a small chase scene almost lifted from the classic Jaane Bhi Do Yaaron and so on. Now what started in the first part of the film as funny – the extreme frequent usage of farting and elaboration of human stool and its passing in the second half took the fun out from this grey humour for me.  Because, it is still at a level of abstraction where the tendencies have been to make the film ‘realistic’ but the form is almost the same primitive.  The scene where the gangman unloads human faeces on the table is hence nonsensical to me – neither humorous nor abhorring the way Pasolini raked up smell from behind the scenes even! Now if someone is not that bold to show the actual things on-screen (which can be fully justifiable) then why just fake it?  Just like Aamir’s earlier Dil Chahta Hai, DB also  renders within the normal peripheries of Hindi mainstream film – only camouflaging as being radical (and rebellious, this time).

Most of the time, the jokes in DB are cartoonish by any standard and raunchy to be best (or worst!). It such a misfortune that the film is branded as “Adult comedy”. It becomes difficult to appreciate that “adultness” is only in scatology and in squeezing the breasts of a prostitute on screen.  Likewise, the whole subplot of one of the characters trying to blackmail his landlord with pictures (taken in a non-digital SLR camera!!) of the latter visiting a prostitute falls flat. Or, take for instance after the other inmate of that crude apartment came to know that his love-interest is already engaged, breaks into a musical number in the typical Hindi cinema isshtyle – the only difference is that the dual-meaning of the lyrics possibly imply that the girl once gave him a blowjob!  Even, for the matter, the joke about branding the female journalist as a lesbian in one of the party scenes. If there is a slant at any transgression if at all, that is not understood. On the contrary in hooking up her with the male protagonist in the end (instead of the protagonist’s rich girlfriend), tries to balance the sexual preference of the female journalist.

In his blog Aamir Khan said, "Aamir Khan Productions is known for its inspiring, clean, family entertainment. All that is about to change! Delhi Belly has the potential of, in a single stroke, destroying all the goodwill we have built in the last ten years” (http://movies.ndtv.com/movie_Story.aspx?id=ENTEN20110175242 accessed on 27-July-2011). As mentioned, apart from that artificial picturisation of stool being unloaded, almost nothing is too gross – neither visually, nor at an abstract level apart from liberal use of curse words. On one hand the sanctity of familial happiness is restored in the landlord getting a let off and her wife knowing nothing about him visiting the brothel, and on the other, the male protagonist’s rejection of his girl-friend and her over-interfering family was as per the mainstream audience’s latent wish!

The effort in the end is a paced film smartly done which in actual is too concerned not to offend the audience or even try to shock it. There are laugh guff which all probably gets white-washed from the mind after some time. We can however, always hope that the next “adult” comedy gives some respect to the matters inside the head rather than your belly!

Ichchhe – if only the parents wished less

Let me start with the story of a teen-ager some twenty years back. He loved and wanted to study literature. His academician parents were wiser - "There is no future in General stream that too Literature". The boy grew up believing that he probably didn’t have the merit as well to pursue arts.

Watching Nandita Roy and Shiboprasad Mukherjee's debut film Ichchhe (meaning 'wish') I suddenly got reminded of that boy whom I knew quite well till a time. Ichchhe deals with a reality which is a perceived reality of the Bengali middle class. Long back Rabindranath Tagore was miffed by the hapless Bengali psyche and wrote "saat koti sontaner hey mugddho janoni, rekhecho bangali korey manush koroni" (a crude translation is - "Hey mother of seven crore children, you have kept them as Bengalis but did not let them grow as complete individuals"). Bengali population has got multiplied from that seven crores in these many years but the truth of situation remains almost unaltered. The film opens up with a kid Rana getting up from sleep and his mother Mamata (Sohini Sengupta) readies him for school. In the short journey in a rickshaw to school, Rana is hammered with 'knowledge' from the mother. And this continues, from home to school, on the way back and almost all the time the child is awake. He is threatened, loved, blackmailed and cornered - to fulfill the 'wish' of the mother that he stands first in the exams every time. Soon we find Rana a pawn to his mother's irreverent desire – a cherished dream of self-respect and status-quo in the society which her LIC-agent husband cannot provide.  In a touching sequence she breaks up to her sister and confesses that she has nothing more to do – she wanted to make it big through some one, if not the husband then at-least the son. This sad revelation immediately strips off the mother from a villainy badge, making her emotions logical even if her actions were not.  In one of the altercations the father (Bratya Basu) told her wife that as parents they have done their duties in bringing up their son and she should not ideally confuse it with her own sacrifices towards making a better future for Rana. Mamata couldn’t take it internally, her life revolved round her son, how can now she try to dissociate herself from this? Near the later part of the film there is a stunningly tragic representation of the repressed anxiety of Mamata, her world where Rana is still a kid – his cups and medals where Mamata can feel her efforts into the achievements. The message is strong and clear – how parents mummify their children as toys for their own ego satisfaction.  Through the father’s character in direct comparison with Mamata’s the dilemma of attention over intrusion is conveyed well. It was an interesting code where the father being un-interested from the beginning is not Rana’s biggest threat but is distant from him. On the other hand the mother trespasses Rana’s life and drifts away from Rana to an extent that he sees her as his enemy and revolts from time to time. So where does the son go? In Sanskrit there is an adage – “prapteshu sorosho borshe, putra mitra badacharet” (meaning “attaining the age of sixteen, the son should be treated as a friend”). Unfortunately even now, in middle class Bengali houses the son-parent relationship lacks this maturity. The film doesn’t answer this dichotomy as well but reflects it truthfully.

Interesting also is the politics of gender where the homo-gendered rivalry of the coveted object (the ‘man’) leads to a tussle of emotional tug-of-war. While Rana’s first girl-friend was passive (whom Mamata initially nipped off brutally from Rana’s life and at a later time wanted to implant back to get rid of his second girl-friend), Jayanti, his second love-interest is charmingly effervescent.  Bidita Bag as Jayanti exudes freshness which is natural and real. To her credit she managed to uplift the character from being a baby-doll at the hands of Rana or the director-duo! Her effortless flirtations from being an extrovert to the moments of psychological crises are praiseworthy. With few more films lined up for release, Bidita hopefully will get the variety to portray a range of characters. She has a promise, an urban youth who is familiar to us. Her leading man in the film Samadarshi Dutta (who played the grown up Rana) is a finding. His big eyes are innocent till you beat his ego hard and he can be stinging in his cold stare. With a stubble he at times resembled the young Soumitra Chatterjee of Apur Sansar (remember, The Times reviewer wrote, "Actor Chatterjee, as a young man too gifted to be strong, provides an unforgettable object of the Biblical lesson (Luke 10:8) ' the children of light'"). This is Samadarshi’s first film (like Bidita’s) though not the first released since Ichchhe was delayed exhibition by three years! Both Samadarshi and Bidita launch themselves whole-heartedly into the filmscape – we can hope they can be the face of Bengal to World cinema. Sohini Sengupta as Mamata used her stoic physique to create a sense of un-relented destiny for a Bengali child – a different mother archetype which is less benevolent and more strict and fearful. Sohini, as always grabbed the role in both hands and delivered.  At times she was melodramatic, her theatrical overtones being overtly underlined. But those can be treated as aberrations. Her own sense of void that leaves her hitting at the door of communication with her son and returning empty-handed are carried through deftly. Sohini as Mamata, is a different image in the collage of character acting in Bengali cinema and it’s sure to be held with high esteem in future as well.

The film that can boast so highly of the acting however cannot do justice with its soundscape. The background music is too dramatic and intrusive. Rupam Islam added some decibels of noise. Anuseh Anadil of Bangladesh sang a poignant song and juxtaposed with Rana’s emotional outburst to Jayanti however seemed a little lengthy defeating the purpose of drama needed there. The costume as in most Bengali films raise the same question – why will most of the characters remain so immaculately made up even if they are at the leisure comfort of their homes? 

Ichchhe is a good attempt. It holds on a palette that has all the colours that we are familiar with. It is rare to find a Bengali film devoid of any nostalgic reference. Rather it intrigued the audience to tread nostalgic remembrances about their own childhood and the others surround them. The making is not outstanding as a result somehow there is a feeling of looking at the sky through a small window rather than the whole sky itself. Yet, such effort is praiseworthy simply because it tried to look at different aspects of life that contemporary Bengali film makers choose to ignore. Ichchhe probably cannot become a phenomenon in itself the way Taare Zameen Par happened to be. But Ichchhe did create a ripple that transmitted across successfully. That is no mean achievement.

Postscript:  That boy, whom I mentioned in the beginning, never had the courage of Rana to revolt nor did his mother push him to that extreme. He is now a man in his late thirties who toils hard in a software company. I happened to ask the toiler “Are you happy with what you do or you wished if you are in literature today”. I got a corporate-like response “well it depends”. But I already know that art has left him long ago.

Soumitra Chatterjee Revisited

At Satyajit Ray Auditorium, ICCR,Kolkata on July 11,2011, Films Division, Government of India & Rabindranath Tagore Centre, ICCR jointly presented the premiere of Soumitra Revisited, a documentary made by Sandip Ray (not the son of Satyajit Ray) on the legend Soumitra Chatterjee. This is a every important incident to me. When the nation state is ga-ga over the new "Indian" cinema which is in essence only Hindi cinema, the retrospect on regional cinema is all which is welcome. And yes, this can be made possible by the Govt of India only since they can look beyond the bazaar.

It was important for me to write this piece as a flock of emotions cloud my mind. I was rather harsh on him post his Best Actor felicitation in my article The Enigma That is Soumitra Chatterjee (http://dearcinema.com/article/the-enigma-that-is-soumitra-chatterjee/1944) due to his overt and insensitive support of the Government in the Nandigram killings. I, at a later point in time, took an interview of him for my magazine Silhouette which was later re-published in Dearcinema (http://dearcinema.com/interview/taa%C2%AAte-aa%C2%A0-taa%C2%AAte-with-soumitra-chatterjee/2026). During the interview and afterwards I felt Mr. Chatterjee only acted a scene - one of the many which he does to many interviewers - on screen or off.  I still have that lamentation with me - wished I could take another with a more decent timeline and which actually probes and brings out the mysteries round creation.

I grew up watching cinema in the decade of the eighties. How I wished to be there when a Satyajit Ray classic got released or Ritwik Ghatak's Subarnarekha hit the theatres. That feeling eluded me ever. However on the brighter side, I could get a retrospective effect of the cinema of the Indian masters. And who else than Soumitra hogged it all. It was some sultry afternoon when I completed reading Bibhutibhusan's Pather Panchali and Aparajito - the two literary masterpieces that gave birth to Ray's Apu Trilogy. Like many, the electrifying feeling was to think myself as Apu - life is so beautiful, so vibrant and it never mattered if Apu and I are separated by decades, hundreds of kilometers and the comfort cushions of the living rooms. It was quite an experience hence to watch Ray’s Pather Panchali and liking that as well – how could he see the pictures that I have drawn in my mind! I was little apprehensive of Aparajito, Ray’s middle one of the Trilogy then (though it evolved as slightly more dear than the other two much later) but when I saw Apur Sansar, the last part, I was again sure that this man and no one else can be Apu. Till today, fifty two years after the film was made, I cannot think of anyone else as Apu. That film made Soumitra Chatterjee an icon. He stayed young and Apu ever since.

Chatterjee acted in hundreds of films, directed innumerable plays (many of which remain quite peerless even today), edited a premiere intellectual magazine in Ekkhan and had been a poet. Is there any other actor on this planet been so versatile? I know not. This multifaceted intellect is what made him popular – shaping up a Bengali intelligentsia in the mould of him. This is the reason why even today, a smart and sleek Sabyasachi Chakraborty isn’t accepted full-heartedly by the Bengali audience in the role of Feluda, the sleuth penned by Satyajit Ray and acted in two films by Soumitra. The two Feluda characterizations by Soumitra and Sabyasachi which are separated by few decades are difficult to be compared - Soumitra’s one is more cerebral and Sabysachi’s more physical.  As mentioned the blue-print of intellect – sharp eyes, hanging cigarette, reciting Bengali poetry dressed in a Panjabi with a shawl crossed across the shoulders with a few day’s unshaven beard – Soumitra-ness is the cult. His association with Ray yielding fourteen roles in the latter’s film only helped in fostering the image. From the romantic Apu, to the manipulative Sandeep (of Ghare Baire) till the stead-fast and honest doctor in Ganashatru, Soumitra had nurtured the image of Bengali-conscience and consciousness. The Bengali-ness which makes us think that pride is above money, that knowledge is more important than being street-smart, that being laidback is superior to throwing tantrums about being ‘professional’.  Interestingly, in many an interviews and memoirs Soumitra had presented a character of himself which is so unlike Bengalis. He is a dynamic person, professional to the hilt and extremely dedicated to his work and art – just like his mentor Ray, we as Bengalis size him and his philosophy the way that suits us. 

But what is more important is to appreciate that probably no other Indian actor aged so gracefully as Soumitra. This is the reason why we never had any problem accepting him in more mature characters where the reel-age was far more than the real. Ray once quipped that Soumitra was not equally good in characters which are not up to the mark. The maestro director was wrong at times and this assessment of his about his leading man is one such – there are umpteen examples of Soumitra being extraordinary in films made by inconsequential directors in forgettable roles. It is unfortunate hence, for an artist of his stature to be always labeled as a director’s actor – his fourteen extraordinary appearances in Ray’s films are to be blamed! It took long for Soumitra to prove his detractors wrong, but he surely did it. For many long years he was without doubt the greatest Indian cinema actor to me. I would argue that he was successful both as a romantic hero and also in character roles even as villains. However, it is true, it is essentially that single Bengali-conscience role that he played with impunity – as a youth ageing to an old. In contrast, Naseeruddin probably holds a more sparkling gamut of offerings – from rags to riches, from being a Parsi to a South Indian – he played them all. Soumitra being a regional actor, it may be argued, got less chance to portray this variety.

There have been many words written about the artist, a documentary by Catherine Berge named Gaach on him and few other tributes. That the Films Division stepped up to pay a tribute is a commendable gesture. For all those, who thrived on a lot of things that nurtured us the way we are, Soumitra Chatterjee remains a vital cog. He had ruled the scene for long and is continuing to startle with the veracity of his commitment towards life and art.

Take a bow, Apu – the world is truly, yours.