Showing posts with label India. Show all posts
Showing posts with label India. Show all posts

Review of Satyajit Ray's 'Charulata'

'Charulata' is a 1964 Bengali film by Satyajit Ray based on a story by Rabindranath Tagore. The story takes place in the nineteenth-century during the period of what is called 'The Bengal Renaissance.' Western thoughts of freedom and individuality are ruffling the age-old calm of a feudal society. Charulata's husband, suited, bearded, pince-nez-wearing Bhupati is inspired by the gospels of Mill and Bentham, by ideas of freedom and equality. He spends his feudal wealth and all his waking hours on the propagation of these through 'The Sentinel,' an enterprise which is destined to flounder by the very fact of the single-minded idealism of its editor. But the winds of change are not only stirring him; unknown to herself, his good Hindu wife, conveniently childless, is no longer capable of treading the beaten path of the ideal woman who wants nothing of life but her husband's happiness.

She longs for his company and is bored with his attempts to supply diversions in which he is himself not involved. One of these diversions is her husband's cousin, Amal, who is served to her on a platter by the trusting husband as her friend, philosopher and guide. In him she finds one with whom she can share her thoughts and on whom she can bestow her affection. Slowly, unknowingly, the relationship turns into one of sexual love. When Amal realizes the nature of his feeling for her, he flees into marriage and exile in England. Bhupati, who sees in her grief only an innocent affection, suddenly comes face to face with the truth when she breaks down on hearing of her beloved's marriage, unaware that her husband had come back into the room.


Tagore's short story finds the husband departing at the end to be the editor of a newspaper a thousand miles away. Charu wants to go with him because she cannot bear the prospect of living with her memories in the desolation; he will not take her with him because the company of a wife who is constantly thinking of another will be too much of a cross to bear. He weakens when he sees her plight and offers to take her along; she reads his thoughts and decides to stay. Tagore thus ends on the symbol of a clear break. Ray, perhaps more realistically, freezes them to a state of eternally suspended animation.

The pattern of relationships within the traditional joint family in Bengal is often as complicated as within a whole society - particularly between men and women. Side by side with taboo relationships, there are others which are indulged by tradition up to somewhat vague boundaries of decorum. For a young wife, one of the husband's younger brothers (or cousins) would often turn out to be a special favorite and her relationship with him could well be one of mock love-play without attracting disapproval. The word in Sanskrit for husband's younger brother literally means 'second husband'; on the other hand, there is no word for 'cousin' in most Indian languages - they are all brothers. Ritualistically, therefore, the husband's younger brothers and cousins are vaguely placed in a sort of 'second husband' position, ready to take his place, as it were, but never actually doing so. Even today, it is an ambiguous relationship, made up of brotherly affection often overlaid with tinges of sexuality.

It is in this context, and the context of the gradual liberation of women from feudal slavery - in which Tagore played a very important part - that the content of Ray's 'Charulata' is best understood. It is a context that Ray's film takes for granted for its Indian audience.


Ray had misgivings about the subject even while making the film. How would society take this probe into an area of unspoken internal adjustment mechanisms? Devi's gentle pointer at the price of superstition had come to grief at the box office; if the Freudian undertones in the father-in-law's outlook on his son's wife had been understood, there might have been a minor riot. Indeed there were murmurs on the release of 'Charulata'; but they died down when Ray's triumph came in the enormous critical and box-office success of this film. As I was coming out of the theater, I saw a shriveled old woman, barely able to walk with the help of two young men, wipe her eyes with the end of her sari. Some inner chord in her had been touched.

The secret of her identification with an otherwise uncomfortable theme lay in the state of innocence of the characters who enact the drama of 'Charulata.' Their lack of conscious knowledge of what is happening inside them gives them a certain nobility of innocence; it is in their awakening that their tragedy lies. Amal, the younger man, is the first to realize the truth; for Charu it is an imperceptible movement from the unconscious to the conscious in which it is difficult to mark out the stages; for the husband, it is a sudden, stark, unbelievable revelation of truth. All three wake up, as it were, into the twentieth century, the age of self-consciousness. The rhythm of the unfolding is so gentle and true that there is no sense of shock even for the conservative Indian, although Ray's film is as daring for the wider audience as Tagore's story was for the intelligentsia of its day.

'Calm without; Fire within' was the title of an essay by Satyajit Ray in 'Show' magazine, in which he found the distinguishing trait of oriental art in the 'enormous reserves of power which never spilled over into emotional displays.' I had returned from Europe the very day I went to see 'Charulata' for the first time and still remember the shock of realizing how deep currents of sexual love can be conveyed without two people touching hands. Had Ray made a film about forbidden love which did 'spill over into emotional displays,' violent explorations of each other's personality through sex, not only would the Indian audience have rejected it, but the film would have lost much of the reserves of power held in check which it constantly suggests. It is the sudden breaking-out from this restraint which gives the scene of Charu's collapse on the bed on having news of Amal's marriage, with the impassive Bhupati dabbing his eyes with his handkerchief after he has witnessed his wife's grief, its emotional power.


The fire within smolders most of all in Charu herself; she is the only one of the three who has no crisis of conscience. Bhupati feels guilty for not having devoted enough time to her, and blames himself more than others for his predicament; Amal realizes that he was about to betray the trust of his cousin and benefactor and beats a hasty retreat. Charu alone never turns back on her passion. Her eyes are tranquil and without accent until the swing scene where she dimly senses within her, for the first time, the onrush of a forbidden love. Then suddenly, they go dark, and the pupils shine (a simple trick of make-up and lighting) like a tigress's. And a tigress she remains, albeit a chained one. In her reconciliation with her husband there is no sense of guilt, only a recognition of reality.

There is a passage in the Tagore story ('Nashtanir' or 'Broken Home') which reads: 'Perhaps Bhupati had the usual notion that the right to one's own wife's affection does not have to be acquired. The light of her love shines automatically, without fuel, and never goes out in the wind.'

In words like these, which are interjected here and there in the story, Tagore sums up the condition of women in a feudal society. Ray had already touched upon it in 'Mahanagar' ('The Big City') and recorded the hesitant winds of change. In both films, the instrument of change is provided by an unthinking husband who takes his wife for granted and cannot see her as an individual. In 'Mahanagar,' the instrument is the job which is to give Aroti a brief but lingering taste of economic independence; in 'Charulata,' it is the cousin (brother) who opens Charulata's young mind not only to the joys of literature, but to those of a youthful companionship which she cannot have with her husband. In both, the husbands are theoretically modern but in practice unable to foresee the consequences of their action in disturbing the status quo of their homes - so preoccupied are they with the man's world. Of a woman's new urge for a happiness of her own making, both are blissfully unaware. The position is re-stated more weakly in 'Kapurush' ('The Coward') which could well have been called 'Charulata Revisited.' It finally freezes her in her condition of awareness of freedom which she cannot have - freedom to earn her own living, to love, and to be somebody in her own right. It is through her failure to achieve these things, in a society which has still not changed enough, that we become aware of a woman's urge towards them. Although the development is not precisely that of a trilogy, the three films do hang together, and have a substance which Ray's films lying between the Apu trilogy and the three essays on woman do not have (nor does the film that follows them - 'Nayak,' 'The Hero').


It is in 'Charulata' that both the statement and the art reach their height. For the first time since the trilogy, Ray has something different and important to say, and says it really well. It is, to me, his masterpiece since the trilogy. In a classically Indian fusion of decoration and expression, its miniature-painting-like images acquire an autonomy and poise. Its rhythm, gentle as in all Ray's films, never falters, and Ray's own musical score, competent and interesting in previous films, for the first time becomes a major instrument in making the statement of his film. Its title theme (variations on which recur in the film) is derived from the melody of a composition by Tagore. The words of the song are so apt for suggesting the restlessness in Charu's mind that one would think it was the words which made Ray think of this particular derivation. (Incidentally, Tagore wrote some 3000 songs and for most of them composed the tunes himself.) Another musical motif in the film is taken from a Scottish tune which Tagore had earlier used as the basis for a song sung in the film by Amal and Charu together. It is the first Tagore motif that makes the predominant impression, as memorably as the folk theme of 'Pather Panchali.'

The exquisite period flavor is Ray's own, and distinguishes the film from the story, in which Tagore takes it for granted. The sunlit garden, the swing, the embroidery, the floral motifs on the doors and the walls, the horse-drawn carriage, the evocative settings created by Bansilal Chandra Gupta are, however, more than exquisite decorations; they frame the action and set it at a distance - the distance of contemplation.

[This review was written by Chidananda Das Gupta and published in Film Quarterly (Vol. 21, No. 1., Autumn, 1967, pp. 42-45). 'Charulata' can be viewed in its entirety on YouTube here.]
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FILM REVIEW: MUMBAI DIARIES

Munna (Prateik) in Mumbai Diaries


Encounter unbalanced

By John Esther

Overflowing with contrived encounters, writer-director Kiran Rao’s Mumbai Diaries intersects three people and their supporting milieus from various works and leisure(s) of life inhabiting the city of Mumbai, India.

Arun (Aamir Khan) is an artist low on talent and even lower on social graces, but that does not stop him from seducing art collectors and the likes of Shai (Monica Dogra), an American investment banker who has returned to her very rich Indian family’s home for a little sabbatical where she can dabble in photography. Connecting the two by more than one coincidental turn in this city of 14 million (the second most populous city in the world behind Shanghai) is Munna (Prateik), a washer man, who belongs, by definition, to a lower caste and, by cliche, a model boy from the other side of the tracks.

Shunned by Arun, Shai develops a relationship with Munna, but the relationship means something different to each of them. Meanwhile Arun has discovered some recorded materials that lead him to a dark secret about the fate of a former inhabitant in his current dwelling.

As each of them push to find her or his identity, they inevitably push others away.

Like many films one encounters in less significant film festivals, the heart of Rao’s drama is in the right place, but it tries to do too much with too little talent. 

The film does not hide from the class differences and insurmountable obstacles it takes to rise above of one’s caste. While Shai and Arun sleep in comfort, Munna is out on the streets beating rats the way the local gang beats his family down. There is another sub plot about drug dealing, leading to more coincidental encounters. 

In addition to the laughable times each of the characters intersect on the busy streets of Mumbai, the actors behind the often clumsy dialogue, come off amateurish, especially when the dialogue is in English. This is Dogra’s first film and it shows.

It also does not help that the direction in Rao’s first feature film fails for the most part. Shooting a scene from different angles for the sake of different angles does not flatter a film anymore than the numerous close-ups accentuating the poor dialogue and script. Perhaps nowhere is Rao’s direction misguided than her and director of photographer Tushar Kanti Ray’s metonymic movements over Arun’s paintings. Unflattering to Ravi Mandlik’s painting in the film, the attempt to show the fragments of an artist’s tortured soul – and, we are suppose to accept, the fragments of Mumbai -- unsuccessfully contradicts the direction during the rest of film.

Where Rao’s direction does succeed, often in surprising moments of clarity, is when the camera rolls along the streets of Mumbai, capturing people in their normal behavior. One pauper child demands money before demanding an image of her be recorded. Vast amounts of people on the streets carry out their menial tasks, noticed by no one, but the camera and the subsequent viewers behind it. Fictionalized or not, these minor moments seem to be the more authentic accounts of Mumbai minutiae.




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PSIFF 2011: PEEPLI LIVE

Natha (Omkar Das Manikpuri) in Peepli Live.
Caste away

By John Esther 


Thanks to a lifetime of hardship resulting in hopelessness and a controversial government program, thousands of Indian farmers continue to commit suicide for money. The number of farmers who have committed suicide in India between 1997 and 2007 now stands at 182,936. 
That is about one suicide for every 31 minutes.

A fictional account of the capitalist crisis met with government response, writer-director Anusha Rizvi's Peepli Live tells the tale of two brothers, Natha (Omkar Das Manikpuri) and Budhia (Raghubir Yadav), who are about to lose their plot of rural land and want to take advantage of the government program.  

After the brothers decide which one will die, the story breaks out with the media, government, politicains and entrepenuers descending on the small rural village to see if a suicide will take place. Sadly humorous, everybody has an agenda. Votes, ratings and money are at stake and nobody cares if a nobody sends back the gift of life. 

A better writer than director, the strength of Rizvi's Peepli Live is the film's unsentimental portrayal of the poor. Far more Émile Zola and Shohei Imamura than John Steinbeck and Michael Moore, the films depicts India's lowest cast as ignorant and brutish, with adults and children prone to yelling, violence, excessive inebriation and self preservation at any cost. This honesty prevents sympathy for the self/society-doomed protagonist, which translates into a more complex look at the issues at hand.

India's Oscar submission for Best Foreign Language Film is about despair and doom. And while that may sound like a depressing time at the movies, consider that with its 104-minute running time, over three Indian farmers will have, on average, committed suicide during the film. 

Recommended.


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Religion and Indian Cinema

Since the early 1990s Indian society has undergone some of the greatest changes it has seen since Independence in 1947. Several key events at the beginning of the 1990s inaugurated the processes that occurred during the decade. These years saw the rise and fall of the political parties who support Hindutva or policies of Hindu nationalism, while economic reforms brought in a new age of consumerism and liberalism that has taken root across the Indian metropolises. While other major social transformations also took place during this decade, such as the rise of lower castes, this period can be said to be one in which a new social group, 'the new middle classes,' rose to dominate India economically, politically, socially and culturally. The impact of these new groups was felt outside of India as they were part of transnational family networks and the diaspora that became increasingly important as a market for Hindi films, alongside other global audiences.


This decade also saw a media revolution (satellite and cable television since 1991), a communications revolution (the mobile phone and the Internet) and new technologies (the audio cassette, the CD, the VCD and the DVD). The dynamics of the interaction of these new media with the film industry have been fast and there has barely been time to analyse them. Religious genres, which had been phenomenally popular as religious soaps on terrestrial television (notably Raymond Sagar's Ramayan and B.R. Chopra's Mahabharat), soon spread throughout the cable and satellite channels along with other religious programming (lectures, music programs), and now religious channels such as Astha and Sanskar grew in in popularity. Audio cassettes and CDs of religious music have continued to sell well, while VCDs and DVDs have allowed religious films to recirculate. Religious content has also flourished in other media, so the Internet now offers online pujas ('worship') as well as access to texts, religious history and so on, while even mobile phones offer SMS blessings and religious ringtones.

Much of this material in the new media is recycled from the religious films. It is impossible to predict where this is all going, and even the present situation remains unclear. One emerging trend is that the consumption of these new media is very different from that of cinema. Although cinema attendance in India has grown with new viewing trends such as the multiplex, the trend for mediated religion is away from an audience in a theatre hall towards a consumer in a domestic space. This must be viewed with caution as the work of Mankekar in Screening Culture, Viewing Politics (1999) on viewing the television Mahabharata suggests Indian viewing practices may be different and these new media may allow the creation of new audiences. This is true of other media as audio cassettes and CDs are played in taxis, autorickshaws and other public places, while VCDs are shown on television screens during festivals. These new technologies allow more rapid dissemination of religious content to the diaspora, and increasingly these groups are active as consumers and producers. Just as Islam has been affected by globalization, especially among the Muslim diaspora (Devji 2005, Roy 2004), one may expect to see the emergence of a new form of globalized Hinduism as the religioscape spreads through the world, linked by these new media. It remains to be seen what form this globalized Hinduism will take.

Although these new media may have initially been viewed as a threat to film (and the DVD seems to be a particular problem for piracy), they actually reinforce film, which remains more spectacular, has better technology and brings audiences together in pleasant surroundings, notably the new muliplexes in shopping malls. The changes in film technology, especially those of digitally produced special effects, have led to talk of a new film of the Mahabharata with superstars Aamir Khan and Shahrukh Khan playing Karan and Arjun (although it remains to be seen if the audience will accept Muslims, albeit superstars, in these roles).

Cinema is part of the wider project of modernization. It deals with material progress, sometimes with moral progress but it has deep ambiguities which are its strengths and which make its study so rewarding. In Film as Religion Lyden (2003) suggests that the very nature of film evokes the religious. I read this with the caution exercized by Asad in Formations of the Secular (2003), in particular his analysis of the proposition that nationalism is a form of religion, where he shows that this widely held view does not stand up to close scrutiny. While there is much that is religious in the nature of film itself, it does not necessarily constitute a religion. The differences between American cinema and religion and the Indian cinema and religion are such that great care should be taken in drawing parallels between the two. More research needs to be done into the pleasures of the religious aesthetic, of faith and of belief in a moral universe in India and in India cinema.

It may be that Indian cinema has specific traits that incline it more towards the religious than other cinemas. One must consider the aesthetics of Hindi cinema, such as its deployment of the miraculous, stars, darshan, tableaux, sets, song and dance, and the aesthetic of astonishment and its evocation of wonder and reverence. Of course it is not just the text itself, but the way the audience perceives it. One only has to think of how Gandhi came to be sen as a divine figure. While all film stars are different from mere mortals through the mechanisms of stardom, Hindi film stars are often perceived as gods by their fans, who may dedicate temples to them. Research has already shown the close associations in India of religion and performance, though this is yet to be analyzed in cinema. As Bharucha's work In the Name of the Secular (1998, p. 40) suggests: 'There is, I believe, an intensely private space in the believer's consciousness that is activated during prayer, worship, meditation or ecstasy.' Cinema creates a group identity for people who believe in the congregation (satsang) and its miraculous effects, and its 'aesthetic of astonishment' (to use the phrase employed by Tom Gunning in his chapter in Linda Williams' Viewing Positions) for an audience that believes in miracles and in stars as gods. Most people react to cinema as something ineffable: we know cinema, we feel cinema but we find it hard to analyze.
It is promising that the scholarly discipline of film studies is slowly beginning to engage seriously with religion. For some years the dominant paradigms were Freud and feminism, which undoubtedly were productive for engaging with melodrama with its study of the unconscious, dreams, desire, and fantasy. We still do not have a better language than this, and so we persist with it, despite our awareness of its limitations. Of course, for religious films, one has to be aware that psychoanalysis sets itself up as a new religion. The theories of postmodernism and the breakdown of grand narratives are not accepted by the majority, neither in the West nor in India. In Filming the Gods, most of the readings can be said to be meanings that are known to the audience and also based on the views of the filmmakers, critics and audiences, though for the first time they are historicized and contextualized rather than interpreted individually, and as a mistaken teleology.

These films, however cynical critics may be, do create religious sentiment in viewers and audiences and may contribute towards a hybrid Hinduism, whether they are taking it from the world around them or whether they are creating it themselves. The films' focus on the family, on the group, on the nation, on the transnational Indian community is all part of a search for a new morality and a new happiness. This raises the question of a Hindu imagination, for these films suggest that religion is more important than nationalism. As British Muslims now often prefer to define themselves as Muslims rather than as Pakistani or Indian, so perhaps a new Hindu imagination may be emerging where the British or North American person of Indian origin is no less Hindu than an Indian. This does not imply any necessary association with Hindutva or Hindu nationalism but with a form of popular belief that has not been redefined in these Semitic terms, nor in any form of systematic belief. If this is indeed a Hindu imagination, it needs to be defined, analysed and historicized.

[The foregoing is from Filming the Gods: Religion and Indian Cinema by Rachel Dwyer (Taylor and Francis Books, 2006). This version was extracted and slightly edited from the author's chapter in The Religion and Film Reader, edited by Jolyon Mitchell and S. Brent Plate (New York and London: Routledge, 2007), pp. 137-40.]
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The Image of Gandhi in 'Gunga Din'

In a most significant display of contempt and cynicism the 1939 Hollywood film 'Gunga Din' cast the 'mad guru' in the physical mold of Mahatma Gandhi. From his slight physique to his austere sartorial look wearing just a loin cloth and a chaddar (a large cotton shawl) draped over his shoulder or head, the demented villainous guru recalled the unmistakable figure of Mahatma Gandhi. Except for the head gear (turban), this was the dress which Gandhi wore during his visit to England for attending the Round Table Conference. Adopted from 1921 onwards, this dress contributed substantially in endearing him to the peasant masses of India. It was widely familiarized to the Western public through the visual media.


Gunga Din collapses the actor and personality of Gandhi into one. For the white audience, this effected a closure between the real person and the villain in the film, but for the Indian audience, it opened up the imperialist's motivated misrepresentation. Yet, this collapsing of the two identities made the identification of the Indian audience with the guru and what he stood for that much easier and more significant. The film had once again picked up, what a television critic was to point out much later, writing in the journal Voice in 1985, 'the worst nightmare of the British in India,' by making him the chief threat to the British Raj. In the 1930s, Gandhi was a permanent nuisance to the British. By and large, he was considered and projected not as a saint in Britain, but as one official put it, 'cunning as a carload of monkeys,' and his views on caste, the cow, Lancashire and women were made fun of, as reported by Suhash Chakravarty in The Raj Syndrome (1989). Even sympathizers like Edward Thompson, who came to be a correspondent of Gandhi's and was a supported of the Congress, found him deceitful. In his novels (such as his 1932 A Letter from India) he offered serious doubts about Gandhi. In fact, Gandhi was not treated particularly well in colonial fiction.

The portrayal of Gandhi as the chief villain highlighted the dichotomous perceptions of the two different audiences, Western and Indian. For the Western audience, the empire films confirmed the newsreel projection of Gandhi. According to Martin A. Jackson's article 'Film and the Historian,' published in the journal Culture in 1974, these images of Gandhi were of a 'peculiar Oriental who had outlandish ideas about independence and who wore a loin cloth.' Moreover, Gandhi 'being odd in appearance, full of surprises and engaged in the strangest activities, such as fasting or marching for independence,' was a good subject for the new cameras. It was this image that was duplicated in the feature film. Hollywood's heavy reliance upon the British India Office for cooperation in the making of the film, along with Katherine Mayo and other British writers as a source of information, resulted in the particular propaganda thrust of Gunga Din. In this film especially, as noted by Garry Hess in America Encounters India (1971), Hollywood gave shape to the British propaganda in the USA, which depicted the Congress as fascist with its dictatorial leadership, its domination by a single race (Hindus), its standard uniform of dhoti and Gandhi cap (substituted by a turban in the film) and its veneration of Gandhi, which was projected to resemble that accorded to Hitler by the Germans. Yes, this film also allowed for alternatives US perceptions. Ideologically, Gandhi had his following and admirers in the USA, which comprised a strong anti-imperialist lobby.

For the Indian audience, therefore, the resultant and essentially ambivalent cinematic portrayal provoked wide condemnatory comment in the media. The close resemblance to the villain in Gunga Din to Gandhi also reinforced the contemporaneity of the film. Writing about Gandhi's portrayal in this film, a 1939 issue of the journal Film India recalled an earlier cinematic attempt in 1935, when RKO had produced a two-reel comedy, Everybody Likes Music, in which, 'Our revered leader Mahatma Gandhi was portrayed as an immoral drunkard with a low woman in a cheap saloon. His figure, his dress and all his peculiarities so sacred and dear to our nation were used to convey an exact identification, same as in Gunga Din, that could not be missed.' For exhibition in India, the offensive portion in the film, Everybody Likes Music, was censored in 1935. Yet, this insult, it was pointed out, was 'broadcast all over the world and the white man laughed at the man who we worship as a God in our country.'

Such a reaction from the Indians was no surprise to the British. They were in fact aware, according to contemporary documents from the India Office Records, of the annoyance in India caused by a German broadcast in which a Germanophile Indian student sneered at Mahatma Gandhi and other India leaders while denouncing the concept of non-violence. Gunga Din went far beyond this: British army officers are shown to abuse the guru, repeatedly denigrating him as 'the dog,' 'the filthy scum' and the 'maniac.' This abuse and ridicule directed at the Mahatma, could hardly fail to provoke an Indian audience.

At the same time, cinematically, this audience had Gandhi and his ideology amply projected in their own movies. A silent-era film Sant Vidur (or Bhakta Vidur), produced in 1921, provided a direct nationalist projection of Gandhi. In this Vidur was molded on the personality of Mahatma Gandhi, played by Dwarka Das, an actor with a tall and lanky figure. According to oral history records in the National Film Archive of India, his entire make up 'made him look like the Mahatma, including the Dandi Danda in his hand.' The film was banned initially because, as J. B. H. Wadia observed in an interview recorded in 1984, 'We know what you are doing, it is not Vidur, it is Gandhiji, we won't allow it.' Later on, with several cuts, the producer succeeded in showing the film in some of the provinces, including Bombay. It did roaring business everywhere. There were yet other films, like Brahmchari made in 1938, which showed Gandhi's Wardha-like ashram run on nationalist lines of self-help, hard work, the khadi (raw cotton) spinning and weaving program and other handicrafts. The charkha (spinning wheel), reminiscent of sudarshan chakra (the divine weapon of the Hindu god, Vishnu, and a destroyer of all evil), and looked upon as a potent icon of freedom movement, was popularly perceived as a symbol of the annihilation of foreigners. This film also ran into trouble with the censors because of its explicit nationalist overtones and identification with Mahatma Gandhi.

An important landmark in early films incorporating the contemporary nationalist discourse, especially in relation to Mahatma Gandhi, was Sant Tukaram (1936). A vastly popular film it ran continuously for a year in Bombay; in the countryside people walked for miles to see its open-air screenings. The film was rated as one of the three best films at the prestigious Venice film festival in 1937, marking the first time an Indian film won an international award. Tukaram, as Geeta Kapur argues in a 1987 article 'Mythical Material in Indian Cinema,' has necessarily to be seen as a socially symbolic narrative. It shows the cross-referencing between cultural creation and political situation already conditioned by the contemporary 'saint,' Gandhi. The film established a close parallel between Tukaram and Gandhi in their message.


In the late 1930s the marketability of nationalism and its viability were visible not merely in the films produced by Indians - most of which became popular hits - but also in the way producers, distributors and exhibitors advertised their products. Mahatma Gandhi, for example, was a favorite for advertising the films. Large size photographs of Gandhi adorned the film advertisements along with much smaller photographs of the lead hero or heroine. According to documents in the Maharashtra State Archives, yet other films were advertised as 'helper to the cause of Mahatma Gandhi,' or invited the viewers to see their film, advertised as portraying 'the ideals of Mahatma Gandhi,' or claimed that 'Mahatma Gandhi's immortal words inspire a picture.' So much so that the distributors and exhibitors of a Hollywood film also felt it commercially prudent to put in a sponsored advertisement claiming, 'Mahatma Gandhi sees the first talking picture Mission to Moscow.' The report that followed suggested that Mahatma Gandhi considered this film to be of the 'right type.'

The British officials were aware of the public draw of the Mahatma's name in the film industry, as suggested by other documents in the Maharashtra State Archives. They had attempted to curb both advertisements and films that exploited the Mahatma's name. Yet, it is significant that despite this hyper-sensitive concern of the film censors in India - who saw in the title Mahatma (a Hindi feature film) 'a sinister association with Mahatma Gandhi' and pressurised the producers into changing it to Dharmatama - they failed to see or offer any comment on the allusion to Mahatma Gandhi in Gunga Din. One can speculate that perhaps they used this demeaning portrayal as a corrective to the one being projected in the indigenous film industry. In fact, it is interesting to note in this connection that Col. Hanna had raised severe objection to Gaumont British's synopsis of a film called Black Land in 1934, which came too close to some of the recent events in South Africa, having identifiable British officials under a thin disguise, as reported by Jeffrey Richards in The Age of the Dream Palace (1983).

The 1930s were also the years when Gandhi had emerged in the Western world, especially in the USA, as enormously newsworthy. A large number of documentaries and newsreels were made of Gandhi's visit to England and his activities in India by foreign producers in keeping with the importance of Indian news in general and that of Gandhi in particular. The newsworthiness of India can be seen in the fact that the British Movietone News kept a crew permanently in India during these years, as evidenced by documents in the Maharashtra State Archives, with a view to securing a 'constant supply of Indian pictures.' Moreover, because these films were widely exhibited in the USA, it was considered 'highly desirable that their subject matter and method of presentation should be carefully considered' with an eye to the effect they were likely to produce abroad. Therefore, a close British superintendence was placed over the filming crews. This 'close co-operation' was of 'mutual advantage,' as certain aspects like the Round Table Conference, authenticating 'honest intentions of the British' came to be projected, on the one hand, and the filmmakers were able to cater to the growing demands of their market on the other, by acquiring a facilitated entry in India.


Consequently, a large number of documentaries and newsreels were  made on Indian themes by foreign producers. The Indian film-makers did not lag behind. For them it was an unlimited opportunity to project the national leadership and Indian's aspirations towards independence. For the British, however, these documentaries and newsreels featuring Mahatma Gandhi, including Gandhi in England, Gandhi Sees the King, Gandhi's Activities in England and others, soon turned into 'propagandist films pure and simple,' especially when the civil disobedience movement attained its height and had to be banned. The Congress greatly publicized this ban in its newsletters and the national media subjected it to extensive comments, as shown by documents in the Maharashtra State Archives. The Free Press Journal, on 16 December 1932, declared the ban on account of danger posed to the British empire by the Gandhian ideas. The Bombay Chronicle, on 17 December 1932, asserted that the films could be prohibited but not Gandhism. Regional language dailies, Gujarat Mitra and Gujarat Darpan, on 18 December 1932, similarly declared that Gandhism could hardly be destroyed by such activities. The censorship of Indian films and documentaries during these years was so tight that even the framed photographs of national leaders in the background were edited out, according to a 1945 issues of the journal Film India. Similarly, between 1 August 1936 and 31 March 1937, according to the India Office Records, several such films were banned on the grounds that they dealt with controversial politics and were likely to ferment social unrest and discontent in the country.

The Congress ministries, after assuming office, relaxed such blanket bans. it is in such a climate of less stringent censorship of Gandhi and his ideology that the film Gunga Din, caricaturing Gandhi, has to be seen. The cross-currents of imperial arrogance and commercial considerations, in combination with the ideological compulsions of the film, made them ignore the likely impact of caricaturing Gandhi on an Indian audience. Ideologically, the film shows a complex handling of Gandhi as a character. Gandhi's semblance is in the fact evoked to subvert his image and ideology. Gandhi is demystified as hypocritically spiritual while being shrewdly materialistic, violent and self-interested. This portrayal accepted the spiritual India of the past but reasserted the fall of Hinduism - into a ritualized violent cult going under the name of spiritualism - in the present context. This decadence is signified in the person of Gandhi, who, in certain sections of Indian society (among both Muslims and Sikhs) was seen as a Hindu fundamentalist, known to use religion and religious symbols as a rallying point for mobilizing nationalist opinion against the British. His real agenda is shown to be a violent takeover of India and not a non-violent satyagraha, as professed.

It is here that a complete travesty of Gandhian philosophy and his political program was effected. It is well known that the all-India movement of 1921-22 was abruptly and unilaterally called-off at the height of its popularity on 11 February 1922, at Gandhi's instance, following the news of the burning alive of twenty-two policemen by angry peasants at Chauri-Chaura in the Gorakhpur district of the United Provinces on 5 February. This decision was deeply resented by almost all the prominent Congress leaders, including his political heir, Jawaharlal Nehru (as reported in his autobiography), and even more so by the younger people. Gandhi's own defense of this action as stated in his paper, Young India, on 16 February 1922, is revealing: 'I would suffer every humiliation, every torture, absolute ostracism and death itself to prevent the movement from becoming violent.' Gandhi's firm commitment against violence was to surface repeatedly as he continued to make effective use of the weapon of fast-unto-death to end riots and other forms of violence.

Putting an end to an effective, revolutionary and violent situation created widespread dissatisfaction and anger against Gandhi and his methods, which produced a strong internal critique that condemned his non-violent doctrine unequivocally and, at best, made no pretense at understanding it. It also spurred fresh revolutionary terrorism, which climaxed in 1929-30, the year of a whole series of terrorist actions in Punjab and United Provinces towns. The Hindustan Socialist Republican Army, which played havoc with British life and administration in northern India, produced heroes and martyrs, who attained remarkable popularity. For example, Bhagat Singh, who was hanged for his terrorist activities, outranked for a short time even Mahatma Gandhi 'as the foremost political figure of the day in popularity,' as shown by confidential intelligence bureau accounts cited by Sumit Sarkar in Modern India (1985). The emergence of revolutionaries and terrorists as popular heroes and martyrs enormously furthered the cause of Indian nationalism. Yet, Gandhi's abhorrence of violence did not allow him to speak or plead on behalf of political heroes like Bhagat Singh. In fact, Gandhi condemned their violence. Durga Bhabhi, the still-living widow of a compatriot of Bhagat Singh, spoke in a 1997 communication to Uma Chakravarti of her own and widespread anger against Gandhi due to his failure to save nationalists like Bhagat Singh from the gallows by appealing to the viceroy for mercy.

For Gandhi, the doctrine of ahimsa (non-violence) was not only a personal credo and philosophy but was a deeply-felt and worked-out philosophy. As a politician, he was aware that the resultant perspective of controlled mass participation objectively fitted in with the interests and sentiments of socially-divisive sections of the Indian people. It could, for example, prove acceptable to business groups, as well as relatively better-off or locally-dominant sections of the peasantry, all of whom stood to lose if political struggle turned into uninhibited and violent social revolution. The concept of ahimsa and satyagraha, therefore, lay at the heart of the essentially unifying umbrella type role assumed by Gandhi and the Gandhian Congress.

The transformation of Gandhian work and ideology in Gunga Din worked toward exposing Gandhian philosophy to generate latent fears and reservations inherent in certain sections of colonial society. The film, therefore, could well be seen by the different Indian audiences as a deliberate travesty, which went beyond caricature and ridicule towards a motivated misrepresentation. The violent repression of Gandhi's non-violent satyagrahis by the colonial state apparatus during the course of the national movement from the 1920s onwards  was well known in India, as were General Dyer's orders to fire on a peaceful, unarmed crowd in Jallianwala Bagh in Amritsar in 1919. Stories of British violence against Indian nationalists had become part of nationalist folklore.


Rejecting these hard political realities about violence and the perpetrators of violence, according to Shahid Amin's 1984 article 'Gandhi as Mahatma' (published in Subaltern Studies III), the cinematic portrayal took off from the well-acknowledged skepticism of the British about Gandhi's non-violent program and the militant and violent action perpetrated by certain social groups in northern India in the name of Gandhi and his ideology. Even the revolutionaries, very far removed in methods from Gandhi, were known to celebrate their victories by evoking his name. For example, the Chittagong Group of revolutionaries headed by Surjya Sen brought off the most spectacular coup in the entire history of Indian terrorism on 18 April 1930 by seizing the local armory and celebrated it with a cry of 'Gandhiji's Raj has come,' as noted by Sumit Sarkar in Modern India (1985).

The film, therefore, portrayed Gandhi (a real-life Vaishnavite and follower of Bhakti), as a worshipper of Kali, the goddess of violence, believing in the cult of violence and murder, to achieve his surreptitious agenda. The conspiracy to take over the whole of India is shown to be a Hindu conspiracy headed by Gandhi and as much against the British as the Muslims. In the days of the communalization of Indian society and polity this could calculatedly generate great anxiety among the Muslims of India, especially those of the Frontier who had thrown in their lot with the Congress. Significantly, in the elections of 1937, the Congress, designated by the Muslim communalists as a Hindu association and projected by the British as such in the USA, had won an overwhelming majority in seven out of eleven states (and formed coalition governments in two others), which included the Muslim majority state of the Northwest Frontier Province. The Muslim League, which claimed to represent all Muslims, could not get a foothold in any state and was busy propagating the image of a Hindu-dominated India. Gunga Din greatly reinforced such a reading. The NWFP was especially troublesome for the British as it was Gandhi's influence on the Frontier leader, Abdul Gaffar Khan, which had led to the merging of his party, the Khudai Khidmadgar, with the Congress. The film's purely Hindu image of Gandhi and the latent violence of Hindus, not withstanding their minority position in this province, could be used to demystify and denounce his growing influence in the NWFP in particular and among the Muslims in India more generally.

[The foregoing was extracted and slightly edited from Colonial India and the Making of Empire Cinema: Image, Ideology and Identity by Prem Chowdhry (Manchester University Press, 2000), pp. 152-59.]
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Indian Cinema between Calcutta and Bombay

During the nineteenth century, writers, social reformers and intellectuals in India fought the impact of colonialism by turning aggressively to their own cultural traditions, even if in some cases it meant the unconscious absorption, and the duplication, of attitudes introduced and perpetuated by the colonizers themselves. An analogous situation developed in the persistence of certain 'high-cultural' attitudes to the cinema in the early years after independence. Parag Amladi has called it the 'All India/Regional film paradigm' in which the cinema of a particular region, Bengal in this instance, and the films of Satyajit Ray in particular, was seen as the genuine thing and culturally rooted, while the Bombay film came to be regarded as un-Indian, escapist and extravagant. Indian film criticism seems to provide a cracked mirror-image of the 'nationalist' debates and conflicts of definition.

India being almost a continent in terms of the various regional cultures and languages that (try to) co-exist within its geographical boundaries, its nationalist movement, particularly the 'cultural wing' of it, had organized itself initially around regional identities. Of these, the figures of the Bengal Renaissance of the latter half of the nineteenth century had had the most impact. Bengal's culture also found a powerful, dominating voice in the multi-faceted artistic achievement of Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941), who combined an upper-class ethos and romantic sensibility with a deeply spiritual and universalist strain. Bengali filmmakers of the fifties like Satyajit Ray and Ritwik Ghatak, irrespective of their political commitments, felt themselves to be the cultural heirs of Tagore. Bengal had also had its own prominent and distinct role in the independence struggle, with its 'terrorists,' its political challenge to Gandhi's leadership and the Congress in the form of Subhas Chandra Bose and the Indian National Army, and its 'history' of partition. When Chidananda Dasgupta, Satyajit Ray and others formed the Calcutta Film Society in 1948, they were united by common objectives of spreading awareness of the 'serious' cinema among Bengali viewers whom they considered better educated in the understanding of cinema and more sophisticated culturally than viewers of the Bombay film.


Bombay, by contrast, had far less homogeneity in terms of its population. Being a port city, it was dominated by business interests and its cinema reflected this factor. The birth of the Indian film industry took place in Bombay through the efforts of an artist-photographer called Dadasaheb Phalke, and Phalke as well as subsequent Bombay filmmakers were fully exposed to commercial considerations and profit maximizations from the very beginning. The 1930s are said to be a stable era in terms of the emergence of a few major studies and film companies which addressed a primarily middle-class audience. With the second world war, however, and in the post-independence era, the audience had substantially changed, and was composed mainly of the lumpen proletariat (factory workers, daily wage earners, migrant laborers, rickshaw pullers, the pavement dwellers) of the cities. The average Bombay film catered to the 'entertainment needs' of this public, as earlier it had tried to create a linguistically homogeneous audience by popularizing Hindustani. As songs and dances increased in number, charges of the Bombay film being un-Indian, culturally rootless, imitative (of Hollywood films) and exploitative became vociferous. After 'Pather Panchali' (aka 'Song of the Little Road,' 1955), it became usual to contrast Ray's dedication, his cultural rootedness, his authentic filmmaking with the kitsch productions of Bombay.

Yet there has never been a serious challenge to such sweeping denunciations, nor an attempt to place the Bombay film at the conjuncture of history and politics. In other words, there has been no attempt to see the regional and the Bombay film as 'non-synchronous' developments (to borrow a socio-political concept) that do not necessarily operate on the same principles of internal coherence and that serve different ends and purposes. The all-India/regional dichotomy bears interesting parallels to the high culture/mass culture debates that are so familiar in the West and have arisen in the context of every new medium with a wide audience.

The current (Western) critical emphasis on popular culture's relationship to politics, gender and high culture may provide some of the terms for understanding critical evaluations of Indian 'popular culture.' While the issue of film and gender has not been raised except in very preliminary and 'empirical' ways, the other two relationships have been the focus of considerable, if problematic, attention. Indian cinema's relationship to mainstream politics is becoming quite significant in terms of the number of film stars who have become powerful political figures, starting from south India and progressively moving northwards (for example, M.G. Ramachandran, N.T. Rama Rao, Amitabh Bachchan, Sunil Dutt and others). Many critics have tired to explain this phenomenon by seeing how these heroes have represented ideal-typical characters on the screen and hence have provided models of leadership. The view of a gullible audience is perhaps the most tenacious feature of mass culture critiques of India's commercial cinema, the roots of which are to be traced to the fifties. The sociological variant of it sees the movies as providing relief and escape from drudgery and hopelessness for the half-starving millions. The Bombay cinema is so divorced from 'reality' because the audiences demand escape, they seek a form of cheap entertainment. This view is one that is most often voiced by filmmakers themselves, and has led to versions of what some have called the 'proletarian appeal' and the 'hedonist fancy' in Indian film criticism.


The notion of Indian audiences as unsophisticated and clamoring for the circus was widely subscribed to in the fifties by writers, film critics, public officials and upper-class viewers of foreign films, and was grounded in ideas of elite and folk culture. Nirad Chaudhuri, writing in 1954 in The Illustrated Weekly of India, expresses his disgust for the 'rabble' in these words:
The Indian cinema is still held in its foreign leading strings and is totally unrelated to any tradition in Indian culture, old or new. In actual fact, what the Indian cinema is doing is to force Indian sensibilities into alien molds. Its disruptive effect is going to be, and already is, far-reaching among the common people. It is rapidly destroying their folk culture and converting them mentally into a typical town rabble, a disgusting plebs urbana always crying for the circus.
A similar conception of the post-second world war Hindi film as catering to the uneducated masses was a strong ingredient in the arsenal of Chidananda Dasgupta, the most influential of Indian cinema's 'traditional' critics. A friend and early champion of Satyajit Ray and the regional cinema, in Talking About Films (Delhi: Orient Longman, 1981), he chastised the Hindi cinema for not being Hollywood:
Diligently, the Hindi cinema has perfected its one and only formula. It has had no John Ford turning out Westerns, no Milestone making memorable war films, no Hitchcock to hold us in thrall, no Minelli, no Donen to make ti by music alone. It has no genres. It is impossible to make, in our national cinema, anything like 'Judgment at Nuremberg' or 'Advice and Consent' or 'The Best Man,' although our guru has been Hollywood. It makes no adult films for the literate middle class.
More recently, in the wake of the exposure of audiences in some international capitals to Indian films, through festivals and retrospectives, critics like Derek Malcolm have come up with a third term to denote the work of some Bombay filmmakers who are being 'rediscovered' and celebrated. They belong to the 'middle cinema,' having neither the 'unity' of the regional cinema nor the 'vacuity' of the 'typical' Bombay product. A form of 'auteur' criticism, this stance would basically conceive of Indian-cinema as a few names worth knowing in a vast ocean of anonymity and kitsch.

But, the notion of 'audience' and how it is inscribed within Indian film texts, what this audience is like and its cultural moorings - these questions are persistent and refuse to go away. Apologists for the Bombay cinema have finally hit upon a way to connect it to something concrete in social life and a way of seeing its positive impact on audiences: this cinema is unifying the nation by popularizing Hindi as the national language where all efforts and legislation have failed. Cultural pessimism is thereby countered with 'sociological' optimism. But the cultural pessimism, in addition to being rooted in a view of the undiscriminating audience, has two strains that bear on the elite/mass distinctions. The Bombay cinema is a hybrid, a garbled borrowing of diverse elements and thus distinct from the more authentic older arts, but it is not like Hollywood either, and therein lies the rub. It can become elite in a circuitous way if it subscribes to 'world standards.' Thus the pure/impure debate becomes permeated by the national/international debate in complex ways. The Bombay cinema has two 'others,' one internal and the other external, and in disregarding both it is seen to be forever caught up in its own mirage.

[This essay was extracted and slightly edited from 'Identity and Authenticity: Nationhood and the Popular Indian Cinema, 1947-1962,' a PhD dissertation by Sumita Chakravarty (University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, 1987, pp. 24-30. Chakravarty expanded upon this topic in the book National Identity in Indian Popular Cinema, 1947-1987 (University of Texas Press, 1993), and she is currently Associate Professor of Culture and Media at The New School in New York City.]
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Satyajit Ray on the 'Calcutta Trilogy'

Satyajit Ray began his career with the poetic 'Apu Trilogy,' made between 1955 and 1959 as the study of a young man's attempt to find himself and come to terms with the eternal conditions of life and its two opposite poles: love and death. Three of Ray's films made between 1970 and 1971 in effect form another trilogy, the main characters being seen this time in relation to their work. It is a political trilogy, about how we are being shaped, and perhaps misshapen, by our working conditions. 'Days and Nights in the Forest,' the least direct of the three, shows a group of city executives on a country weekend, away from the suffocating atmosphere of Calcutta. 'The Adversary' returns to Calcutta, where a young man revolts against the inhuman conditions attached to his search for a job. And the third film, 'Company Limited,' once more takes the audience round the other side of the desk to show the manipulations and status-seeking at the top of a big firm. In the following 1972 interview with Christian Braad Thomsen, Satyajit Ray discusses the 'Calcutta Trilogy' and other aspects of his work.

Christen Braad Thomsen: Did you consciously set out with the idea that 'Days and Nights in the Forest' (aka 'Aranyer Din Ratri'), 'The Adversary' (aka 'Pratidwandi'), and 'Company Limited' (aka 'Seemabaddha') would form a new trilogy?
Satyajit Ray: I didn't think of it during the first two films. I made 'Days and Nights' because I liked the story, and as for 'The Adversary,' well, I made it because the situation in Calcutta was politically so tense. The students were very active, there was a lot of violence in the city, and if I was going to make another film it seemed it had to be about Calcutta and the young people there. Then in 1971 I read the novel 'Company Limited' is based on, and I immediately thought that this was an important theme. After describing the young man looking for a job in 'The Adversary,' it was relevant for me to describe the people who have control over the jobs, the new upper class, the new breed that has grown up in India since Independence. You see, in a sense the British have not really left...

CBT: You seem in this new trilogy to have acquired a political awareness which was perhaps less openly stated in your previous films.
SR: Possibly, but politics has also come increasingly to the surface in the last three or four years. You feel it every moment of the day in Calcutta: not just the bombs and explosions, but meeting people and walking the streets with the posters on the walls. Of course I have never been unaware of politics, but I have deliberately not used the political issues as such in my films because I have always felt that in India politics is a very impermanent thing. Political parties break up very quickly, and I don't believe in the Left as such any more. There are now three communist parties in India, and I don't really see what that means.

CBT: How have the three films been received in India?
SR: Before I made 'The Adversary' I'd often been criticized for being non-political. After that film, they thought I had become politically committed, and it was very well received. There's a revolutionary character in 'The Adversary,' which is enough for the most simple-minded people. They don't see the depths of the film, they just see that there is some mention of politics. But my previous film, 'Days and Nights in the Forest,' wasn't understood in India. They thought it very frivolous because of its surface, but they completely missed the implications of the structure, which I think makes it one of my best pictures. It's a complex film with seven characters, and in its final form very satisfying to me.


CBT: I would agree that it's one of your best films. But doesn't the lack of a real storyline mean that it's bound to be rather difficult for an audience?
SR: It's rather a film about relationships, and very complex in structure, like a kind of fugue. People in India kept saying, What is it about, where is the story, the theme? And the film is about so many things, that's the trouble. People want just one theme, which they can hold in their hands. I made the film primarily because I was fascinated by this aspect of people being taken out of their normal surroundings, and the way their characters emerge in an unfamiliar setting, away from their daily routine. 'Kanchenjungha' was the same kind of film, and also misunderstood. It's also very complex and in my own eyes a very beautiful film, my only one in color.

It has something like eight or nine characters, a whole family on holiday, just promenading one afternoon, two hours of their lives. But so many things happen. There are two daughters, one is married, and she's having a great quarrel with her husband, talking about divorce but staying together because of their child. The younger daughter has found a suitor on their holiday, and he wants to propose to her this afternoon. He's an engineering executive with a bright future, but his values aren't those of the girl. The father hopes the girl will say yes to him, but for the first time in this family there is someone who doesn't do what the father wants, and she turns him down. Then there's another young man from Calcutta, an ordinary middle-class young man, but on the same mental wavelength as the girl, and there is a hint that there may be a future for those two. And there's the young son, a flirt and a totally frivolous character, who within the two hours of the film's time loses one girl and immediately finds another one.

But what interests me most in 'Kanchenjungha' is the younger daughter and her new friend, who at one point feels that if he manages to please the girl's big autocrat father, then maybe he'll get a job. The father, who has five big companies, talks with the young man about the past, about the British, and the stupid terrorists who rotted in jail while he himself is still alive; and he does offer the boy a job. But the boy turns it down. He tells the girl if it had happened over an office desk in Calcutta he might have accepted it, but here in this marvelous place amid the mountains and the snow he feels like a giant. He's please to be able to say no. For me, 'Kanchenjungha' is an exploration of people coming out of their shells, and a forerunner to the more political trilogy. And that's what interests me in both 'Kanchenjungha' and 'Days and Nights': taking people out of their ordinary surroundings and discovering the self behind the facade, what really goes on in their minds. There's a lot said in the films about money and values and security and how you accept immoral actions to reach your social goals.


CBT: The second film in the trilogy, 'The Adversary,' got a lukewarm reception from some European critics, who suggested that from a stylistic point of view it was more hesitant and less structurally complete than your other work. You use a lot of flashbacks, dream sequences, and scenes in negative. Why the change in style?
SR: Everything I did was of course quite deliberate. I think the main character always dictates the style of a film; and particularly in this case, where you identify totally with the young man. He's a hesitant character, full of doubts and inner conflicts and problems, and with him at the center of the film I couldn't think in terms of a smoothly told story in my usual 'classical' style. I felt all the time I was writing the scenario that if it took a straightforward line and was stylistically orthodox, then it would be wrong. That's why I introduced stylistic factors which are new in my work.

The film opens for instance with the death of the father, shown in negative, and there were many reason for doing it that way. The scene describes the death of a person whom you don't know, and who is not a character in the film. It is a totally impersonal death scene, and death is very difficult to portray on the screen. If it had been in positive, everybody might have looked for signs of life because they are not emotionally involved with this character. And that mustn't happen: the theme must immediately capture the audience. So I started with negative, and since I had done it once I thought, why not do it again later. In the dream sequence I also find it perfectly valid; and use the effect in another sequence, which might equally well have been in positive. That's the scene where a friend takes the young man to a prostitute, and he becomes disgusted and runs away. At one point the prostitute starts to undress, and she is just in her bra and lights a cigarette. Bengali girls don't usually smoke in public, and in India the audience is very conservative, so to soften the impact of that scene I used the negative.

The problem with the young man in 'The Adversary' is that there are a lot of things going on in his head, and he has no one to communicate his thoughts to. For instance, he goes to see his sister's boss, and suddenly - bang-bang-bang - he stands there with a revolver shooting the boss. And then you find out that this is only happening in his mind. In fact, he had been rather polite and nervous, so how could I suggest that he actually wanted to murder the boss? There was no way other than an imaginary flash-forward.

Since people have become used to a certain classical style in my films, I knew the criticisms would come. If it had been the work of an unknown director, the critics would probably have accepted it. But I really don't care about the criticism, and maybe in five or six years when they see it in retrospect, they will find it all right. And I wanted it to be apparent also in the style that this was my first political film: a different film from what I had done before, so let it be different.

CBT: But still, you chose to make the film about the young man who has doubts about his role in society, whereas his brother, who is a revolutionary, is a background character. If you wanted it to be a really political film, why didn't you make it about the revolutionary?
SR: Because a person with a definite political is often psychologically less interesting: revolutionaries don't think for themselves all the time. I was more interested in the young man who didn't have any firm political convictions and who wanted a job under no matter what regime. He thought for himself, and therefore he was suffering. Besides, he carries out an act of protest on a personal level, which to me is a marvelous thing because it comes from inside and not as an expression of a political ideology.

CBT: In 'Company Limited' there is also a revolutionary character in the background. In fact, we don't see him at all, but we learn that he is the boyfriend of the sister-in-law, the character who is obviously the moral center of the film.
SR: Yes, but in a way the sister-in-law is in a tragic situation, because she came to Calcutta in order to find out what social success was like, and what her elder sister's life with her executive husband was like. She's disheartened by what she finds, but on the other hand she is not so sure that she can go back to the revolutionary and marry him. She doesn't know how seriously involved with him she is. The brother-in-law asks her why she didn't tell him she had a boy friend. And she says, 'If there was anything, I would have told you.' She is in Calcutta because she had this great weakness for her brother-in-law, when she was a little girl in her teens. She hasn't seen him in six or seven years, and now that maybe he's such a success, let's see what he is like, whether he has completely changed or whether he is still a human being. Let's see if it's possible to remain a human being in his circumstances. So she arrives, and at first everything seems all right. But when the crisis comes at the factory, he collapses completely. It's evident then that he can only think about his own success, his own career going ahead no matter at what cost.

CBT: But isn't it your intention to suggest that this girl, in her relationship to the revolutionary, really poses a moral political solution to the problems the film raises?
SR: Well, in a way she is in the same situation as the boy in 'The Adversary.' She's uncertain, though at the end of the film she probably will go back to the revolutionary because she's so completely disillusioned with the other kind of life she has witnessed. But she first needed to be exposed to this kind of life in order to make her decision. I always feel that you must know two sides of a problem before you can make up your mind. Then you can make a really strong decision which, as in 'The Adversary,' is not based on the dictates of an ideology but mainly springs from your own, human experience.

CBT: this is another interesting aspect of your political films, that they don't resemble...
SR: ... the films of Godard and Glauber Rocha and the rest? No, certainly not, because I still believe in the individual and in personal concepts rather than in a broad ideology, which keeps changing all the time.

CBT: On the political level, your films are strongly critical of the executive class, but it's vital to the films that you still try to understand the members of that class on a human level.
SR: Absolutely. Even the British we had to understand, because the whole intellectual middle class of India is a product of British rule. Without the colonialism and the British education, there would have been no terrorism. The British gave the Bengalis a liberal education, which ultimately turned them into revolutionaries. And it's ironical that the British really created their own enemies. It too about a hundred years, and the beginning of this development is described in 'Charulata,' when they start through newspapers to question the British rule. And in the early twentieth century you have the first terrorist movement against the British. That had no support from the peasants or the working class. It was a small intellectual group, whose leaders had read all the revolutionary literature, Garibaldi and the rest. They want to get rid of the British, and they thought: why not throw bombs at them? It didn't achieve anything; it was just an emotional gesture. But emotional gestures fascinate me more than ideological gestures.

CBT: In 'Company Limited,' how far are you suggesting that the main character is essentially a product of bad social circumstances, rather than bad in himself?
SR: It is certainly the system that makes him was he is. He's part of a bureaucratic and commercial machine, which has no place for one single man. If you want to live in society, you immediately become part of the pattern, and that drives you into something you may not have been from the beginning. This man clearly has two sides: he has his private feelings and his conscience, but the system forces him to dissemble them and to think only of his security and advancement. But it's an open film and it doesn't make any final statement.

CBT: If you nevertheless had to make a final statement about how to break up a system which distorts people, what would your solution be? You don't seem to have much faith in the revolutionary movement.
SR: I can understand and admire Mao's revolution, which has completely changed China and achieved - at a cost - the eradication of poverty and illiteracy. But I don't think I could find a place in China, because I am still too much of an individual and I still believe too strongly in personal expression. Over the years, I have understood art as an expression of a creative personality, and I don't believe in the new theories which hod that art must be destroyed and doesn't need to be permanent. I believe in permanent values. That's my whole mental attitude, and I have to be true to myself. This doesn't mean that I don't sympathize with the young people, because I do... but at the same time I can see that when people grow beyond a certain age, they begin to have their own doubts. If something radical happens to you between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five, then fine. If not, you are likely to become disillusioned as you grow older.

CBT: Is your personal background this rich, upper-class milieu you describe and criticize in the 'Calcutta Trilogy'?
SR: No, I've always stayed away from that sort of society. I have been very much of an observer and very solitary. The people who work with me on my films are close to me, but I have never been part of that group of people I describe. When I worked in advertising before making films, I had friends who were politically very active and supported the Soviet Union, but I have watched them grow over the years and they are now big executives in advertising firms. they don't talk much about their political position of the 1940s; but if they do, they try somehow to rationalize their development and their careers inside the system. I myself have been active as an artist, which is fine for me, although people say that I don't commit myself. Commitment to what? I commit myself to human beings, to making statements, and I think that is good enough commitment for me.

CBT: The bombings one hears in 'Company Limited,' from the big flat of the business man above Calcutta... are those explosions set of by left-wing groups?
SR: Yes, and they irony is that very often they are caused by Left fighting Left. The tragedy is that the Left is split into so many groups, who are their own bitterest enemies. They don't fight the liberals or the conservatives. They don't attack the real targets, like big industrialists, because they are afraid of losing. Instead, they attack each other.

CBT: You mentioned Glauber Rocha's cinema, which is usually considered as the political expression of the Third World on the screen. Coming from another part of the Third World, what do you think of his films?
SR: I have never seen any of his films, because they are not shown in India. But I would really like to see them, because I understand that he is very powerful and outspoken. The young blood of cinema. Good!

[This interview was originally published in Sight and Sound, Vol. 42, No. 1 (Winter 1972-73), pp. 31-37, and was reprinted in Satyajit Ray: Interviews, edited by Bert Cardullo (University Press of Mississippi, 2007), pp. 53-60. It has been slightly edited for its presentation on TV Multiversity.]
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