Ritwik, the Ball of Fire: 'Meghe Dhaka Tara'

I cried throughout the film; when the end credits started rolling and the grayscale shifted to colour, I thought it was beyond me to analyze this film. Firmly rooted and totally seduced by the temptations of the late capitalist market, it is beyond me to evaluate a film on a creative genius who never compromised with his ideologies. As the narrative merges cinema and theatre seamlessly, shifts in time and space, and shuttles between the real and surreal, the audience is made to embark on an intensely emotional voyage through all the masterpieces, from Meghe Dhaka Tara to Subarnarekha, from Ajantrik to Jukti Tokko ar Goppo. As Subarnarekha flows into Titas, the vintage car of Ajantrik becomes the medium of elopement for the rebel boy of Bari Theke Paliye, and all jukti, tokko, & especially goppo attain the scale the stuff classical tragedies are made of, the audience can’t but shed a tear for the tragic hero of world cinema, who was barely acclaimed in his lifetime. Perhaps, the sentimentality in which the film often indulges in is also a tribute to the great master whose Meghe Dhaka Tara is often reproached for its mushy melodrama. Kamaleshwar Mukherjee has very intelligently sewn together pieces of the great films and plays into a patchwork of brilliance, which almost works as a thriller for those who have the privileged knowledge of all the masterpieces, and therefore, have the pleasure of recognizing the intertextual references. Although the film is embroiled in the political upheaval of the Partition, the Naxalite Movement, and the 1971 Bangladesh War, Meghe Dhaka Tara, it must be noted, is also an extremely contemporary film. Ghatak’s fiery spirit of revolution and his strident critique of state machinery appear so very desirable at this very moment in history. Meghe Dhaka Tara reminds its viewers of the eternal topicality of Ghatak, and therefore, by default the eternal relevance of great art.

It’s difficult to appreciate and do justice to Meghe Dhaka Tara after one watch. The film deserves to be watched many more times. Debojyoti Mishra’s music creates the right ambience to evoke the right kind of mood. Samik Haldar’s camera had to be really alert of Ghatak’s uniqueness. Saswata Chatterjee, has made the protagonist quite believable. Whether he is like the real Ghatak is irrelevant here. Ananya is good, but the real credit goes to the entire ensemble cast of actors in the theatre group and at the asylum. Abir is disappointing, and his appearance in certain scenes as a silent spectator does not add much to the narrative.

Meghe Dhaka Tara might not find box-office success; but then, it would be imitating the fate of most of the master’s films. Nothing has changed. It never will. The film demands patience, knowledge and of course sensibility to appreciate esoteric works of art. And if such are the demands, eighty per cent of the audience stands a good chance of feeling alienated, therefore, of getting eliminated. And another warning: if you find yourself totally drawn into the film, the comfort of the multiplex and the popcorn served during the interval tend to prick you with a sense of guilt, the guilt of being too materialistic.

Image courtesy: www.madaboutmoviez.com

'Laptop': Grim, stifling, confining, and all that

I wont waste much space in reviewing Kaushik Ganguly’s latest, for I have nothing much to say, apart from cribbing about the film’s claustrophobic grimness and raving about Ganguly’s spectacular blind-act. The director gives himself the maximum footage, and quite effortlessly steals the show as a visually challenged writer (Partha) who dictates his novels to Subha (Ananya Chatterjee) all through the day. Subha and her noisy typewriter become his constant companion in the dimly lit apartment smarting under almost palpable depression. Subha’s reticence and sombreness adds to the darkness of the atmosphere; yet, it is in her very presence that Partha feels most animated. Struck by his remarkable insight into feminine desires, Subha once asks him: “Dekhen ki kore?” (How do you see?).


Apart from this part of the story, which incidentally constitutes a major chunk of the plot, Laptop has nothing much to offer. In fact, the way in which the laptop changes hands is rather un-dramatic and a tad incredible. It ruins a family while partially reunites another. It is because of the laptop that Jiyon (Gaurab Chakraborty) has to carry the burden of a failed affair and a false allegation of theft all his life. Indra (Rahul Bose) finds out that his son is being raised by a tea-planter’s family in Darjeeling through some data stored in the laptop. The way in which the film connects the ensemble cast at the very beginning is quite remarkable and raises expectations; but it sadly fails to live up to the expectations as the story unfolds. In fact, there is not a single moment that provides comic relief, and the existential angst becomes a bit too taxing, even when the story moves out of stifling interiors to the hills of Darjeeling. The last part of the film sentimentalizing on impotency and a father having to stay away from his son is unbearably long and monotonous. The film required heavy editing, in general.

The ensemble cast of TV actors is good; but Rahul Bose is atrocious and Churni’s mannerisms grate on your nerves. She is becoming extremely repetitive by the day. Apart from Kaushik, it’s Ananya who stands out. Anyway, at 180 minutes the agony the characters suffer grows into you, leaving you rather distraught. In a word, Laptop is a major disappointment of sorts. The evening show at Fame (Hiland Park) had but a thin crowd, and none seemed sufficiently excited after the curtains came down.

Image: banglasangeet.in

Rituparno Ghosh’s Abohoman: Men, Women and Love

Rituparno Ghosh’s latest venture Abohoman (Since Time Immemorial) raised storms as many found similarities with Satyajit Ray’s much-gossiped-about affair with actor Madhabi Mukhopadhyay, a claim Ghosh has been rejecting vehemently in every interview. Ray’s differences, due to this alleged affair with the actor, with his wife and son had come under media scanner, and were widely speculated upon by the Bengali middleclass. This affair has till date remained a luscious Tollywood scandal, although Ray and his family had always been rather guarded about it. But, Bijaya Ray in her memoir has often insinuated at this affair, but has drawn the line before revealing intimate detail. A film based on this scandal, or as it has been publicized by the media would definitely draw the crowd, especially middle-aged middleclass Bengalis. 

The connection with Ray is most evident in the manner in which Ghosh has designed Aniket’s study. Ray seated in an armchair amid a sea of books in his study is quite a familiar image to Bengalis. Ghosh revisits this image in Abohoman by way of which he quite unambiguously suggests what is being speculated. Shrimati alias Shikha’s (Ananya Chatterjee) arrival at Aniket’s funeral in full makeup, straight from the stage, is reminscient of Madhabi’s arrival at Ray’s cremation, with surma in her eyes. Apart from these two easily recognizable similarities, the film travels beyond the biography of a well-known filmmaker to narrate the tale of a director and his muse, an age-old story, as attested by the title of the film. 

The film within the film tells the story of Binodini Dashi, the legendary nineteenth century Bengali theatre actor, and her tryst with life on stage (till then an essentially ‘male’ domain), her admirers, and her mentor. Ghosh’s Binodini is proud, impulsive, seductive on the one hand, and emotional, unrelenting and persevering. Binodini’s self-anagnorisis lies in the acquisition of the knowledge that she is indeed an actor, a puppet hung from the invisible hand of the patriarch. Essentially the film is an artistic take on the position of women in the world of entertainment, a dreaded public space where they are most vulnerable. Even if there is recognition of their talents (in case of Binodini as well as Shrimati), they are never real actors, but passive recipients. Ironically, the film’s title, while alluding to the eternal romantic bonding between the director and his muse, also alludes to the broader man-woman relationship, in which the power dynamics are still unaltered, even in the new globalized world, and its neo-liberal hullaballoo about women’s liberation and empowerment. It’s the same power equation: the man vehicle of the agency and the woman the passive performer. The age-old binaries of the rational/irrational, active/passive, or intelligent/emotional do not seem to have changed. The housewife (played by Mamata Sankar) complains of betrayal; so does the actor of the nineteenth century as well as the present day. The complaint, I guess, is less against an individual; rather it is against a system so deep-rooted that it’s impossible to to be dismantled. Interestingly, even if we assume that the complaint is against an individual, say director Aniket or theatre-magnet of Renaissance Bengal Girish Ghosh, both these individuals are much too aware of the plight of women. Aniket, for instance, reads out to Shrimati tales of prostitutes: “Hinger Kochuri”, “Barbodhu”, and others. Tales of the ‘other’ woman, an eternal outlaw inhabiting the fringes; yet without whom the centre cannot function. Actually, the tales of these prostitutes in a way become commentaries on the eternally marginalized position of women: the prostitute’s ‘otherness’ is visible; the housewife’s isn’t. But both are equally dominated. And this story is really really old…as old as eternity: abohoman. But, as with all Rituparno Ghosh films, the victimhood narrative becomes a bit tiring towards the end. The film-with-the-film, in particular, makes of Binodini a sentimental heroine, and suppresses the other side of her story, for instance, the power she exercised in bringing out her autobiography, despite insurmountable odds. I felt that way Ghosh has not been fair to her. 

The film offers three very powerful performances. Ananya Chatterjee steals the show with her freshness, although she is not quite up-to-the-mark as Binodini. She seems to imitate Madhuri, perhaps, on Ghosh’s instruction, for he wanted Madhuri to play the role initially. Mamata Sankar emotes as effortlessly as she breathes. Dipankar De is extremely believable. The others are just about okay. The background score and the music would score really high. Ghosh’s attention to details is hardly questionable, although the scenes are mostly shot indoors, thereby the gigantic task of recreating early modern Kolkata has been cunningly avoided . However, I felt that the film within the film telling Binodini’s story could have been shot in black and white or sepia tone. That would have made it more believable. After two debacles (Khela and The Last Lear) and an average attempt (Sab Choritro Kalponik), Rituparno Ghosh seems back to his elements. He would not disappoint this time.