A Death in the Gunj: a preview

Konkona Sen Sharma’s debut feature film is a sensitive portrayal of ‘difference’ in a heady family drama which mutates into a thriller

After touring the world for about a year, Konkana Sen Sharma’s debut feature, A Death in the Gunj is all set to release in Indian theatres on 2 June 2017. After having proved her mettle as a superlative actor of infinite potential, Sen Sharma perhaps could not have a better start as a visionary behind the camera, who brings to her first feature film an extremely profound and nuanced understanding of human relationships and psyche. The film’s scrupulous attention to details, its retro-texture befitting the period in which the story is set (1978-1979), the costumes, the body language of the actors – everything testifies to a deep engagement on part of the filmmaker with the cinematic text, faithfully supported by the cinematographic excellence of Shirsho Roy in every frame.

In a very long time, Indian Cinema has not been able to scare its audience meaningfully, no matter how hard several filmmakers tried by deploying ridiculous graphics of ghosts, gore and gruesomeness; the fear, in most of these cases, was so damningly concretised that the thrill of getting scared was lost in the mayhem of ludicrous supernatural happenings or in the mediocre use of cinematic (or VFX) devices. Sen Sharma does complete justice to the genre she chooses (a family drama that mutates into a tragic thriller), by creating the right kind of atmosphere and psychologically disconcerting situations, which when reflected upon, augment the scare manifold, long after the film is over. 

Set within the familiarity of the tropes of a family holiday film, A Death in the Gunj (which might suddenly remind an alert viewer of Renoir’s A Day in the Country) gradually moves into extremely uncomfortable zones of human relationships, passions and loneliness, unravelling the darker shades of human nature, which when once revealed instigate the greatest fears that are difficult to assuage. While watching the film, it is difficult not to recall Aparna Sen’s short film Picnic made for the Doordarshan in the 1980s, in which Konkona had a significant role. However, Picnic was not a thriller, but a very disquieting tale of human relationships with insinuations of adultery, envy and possessiveness. Perhaps, Sen Sharma has consciously or unconsciously drawn upon a creative legacy by adapting her father’s story (Mukul Sharma) and alluding to her mother’s vision as a filmmaker, while dedicating the film to Vishal Bharadwaj, one of the greatest cinematic talents in contemporary India.

The Death in the Gunj impresses by its layered exploration of its protagonist’s (Shuttu aka Shyamal Chatterjee, essayed by the inimitable Vikrant Massey) coming of age and his gradual awakening into a hostile world where he does not seem to belong. Shuttu’s love for nature, literature, quiet moments – his overall introversion – set him apart from the hyper-males of the family, who bully him, humiliate him, and drive him to a breaking point, when he crosses his limit of endurance. Suttu, in all his sensitivity and emotional vulnerability, ends up being the quintessential other in the family, which barely understands him, except perhaps Tani (Arya Sharma), his young niece. “You are so pretty that you could have been a girl”, Mimi’s (Kalki Koelchin) compliment to Suttu, establishes a sexual ambiguity which significantly espouses his marginality vis-à-vis the other male members of the family. This ambiguity is, however, mitigated to a certain extent as he gradually gets erotically drawn to a sexually adventurous Mimi, but, the discomfort remains. At the same time, Mimi’s sexually liberal nature, her nonchalance to moral codes and her gregariousness also opens up grey zones of female sexuality, which are very seldom explored in Indian cinema and that too, without passing moral judgement. Most importantly, the film brings back a decade, the late 1970s, in a way Bollywood has barely remembered it, and raises very pertinent questions about conventional codes of masculinity, which are rarely dismantled in mainstream cinema. 

Supported by a extraordinarily talented ensemble cast comprising veterans such as Tanuja and Om Puri and extremely promising present day actors such as Gulshan Devaiah and Tillottoma Shome, apart from Ranbir Shorey, Jim Sarbh, Kalki and the endearing Vikrant, A Death in the Gunj does not need stars to shine in cinema halls. Its strength is its script, its powerhouse of acting talents,  and the effortless eeriness it creates. And, Sagar Desai’s music is a definite plus. In a long time, the film has revived memories of the New Wave Indian cinema which are gradually fading out in the overwhelming glamour and glitz of formula-driven potboilers.

Sunglass: Rituparno’s magic lenses and what wasn’t so magical after all

Shot in 2005, Sunglass (Taak Jhaank in Hindi) never saw a theatrical release during Rituparno Ghosh’s lifetime, and the grapevine has it that the filmmaker had a row with Planman Motion Pictures, which held up the film until the state government intervened and premiered it at the 19th Kolkata International Film Festival. Whenever I asked him about Sunglass, Rituparno was visibly annoyed, and asserted, ‘I am not bothered whether the film is released or not; I have outgrown that phase of my career long back…I do not make such films anymore…’ Yet, Sunglass is his most light-hearted film; his sense of humor, which informs many of his serious films, imbues almost every frame with a delightfulness which is indeed rare. Towards the end of his career, Rituparno was gradually shifting into darker themes and controversial subjects and the ‘merrymaking’ in Sunglass appeared escapist to him. Discourses on death, loneliness, betrayal, parallel sexualities, and the pains of inhabiting the periphery undercut his later films in such a way that happy endings had begun to appear much too Utopian to him...

Read more: 

http://www.cinemachronicles.in/rituparno-ghoshs-sunglass-review/

Goynar Baksho: Pishima’s pranks and women’s liberation

It was Rituparno Ghosh who had made Rangapishima immensely endearing with all her radicalism and open-mindedness, almost a decade back, in Shubho Muharat. In Goynar Baksho, Aparna Sen’s Rashmoni (Moushumi Chatterjee) with her mischievousness and libertinism and all her rancorous and benign spookiness, uncannily reminds of Rangapishima! Although it is true that Rashmoni is comparatively more rustic and acid-tongued than Ghosh’s Rangapishima, removed from her by several decades. Yet, it is hard not to think of Rangapishima when Rashmoni urges Somlata (Konkona Sen Sharma) to break moral barriers or embarrasses her with personal questions. The most glaring reminder is the cat which often acts as the receptacle of Pishima’s departed soul. This comparison, however, is not to decry Sen’s or Chatterjee’s effort to bring Shirshendu Mukhopadhyay’s Rashmoni to life. Both Rangapishima and Rashmoni would have their individual places in the history of Bengali cinema. 

            Goynar Baksho is an out-and-out woman’s film, if not feminist. Somlata’s independence which is earned through her intelligent business planning and Pishima’s unwavering support forms the core of the narrative. What remains glaringly ironical all through, and commendably so, is that complete liberation from patriarchal control seems possible only after the death of the woman. The film, which begins with Pishima’s death and creates a laugh riot when Pishima mischievously takes little revenges for the wrongs done to her in her lifetime, seems to suggest that it is in some imaginary afterlife that a woman can really become free. The patriarchal norms are mocked at and moral codes and taboos related to sex and body are made fun of, by a repenting Pishima who realizes only after death that what she has missed. There is no heaven or hell; there’s nothing called sin. Pishima returns with this superior knowledge to ‘save’ her nephew’s wife. When a younger Pishima hides behind the pillar and weeps helplessly while Ramkhilaon is beaten to death, the crime of sexual suppression which has destroyed millions of women’s lives screams out of the screen. As Ramkhilaon is thrashed mercilessly, the filmmaker whiplashes the audience. And immediately, the lights come up as the word ‘Intermission’ fades-in on the screen, giving the audience time to ponder over it, as it were.  

          

  While the film does border on the farcical at times, the raciness of the first half which keeps the audience in splits most of the time, does not allow much time to think of its shortcomings. A brilliant Moushumi Chatterjeee and an equally competent Konkona Sen Sharma adequately supported by a powerful ensemble cast of Saswata Chatterjee, Paran Bandopadhyay, Manasi Sinha, Pijush Ganguly, Aparajita Auddy, and Monu Mukherjee make some very weak scenes credible. But the debacle happens after the ‘Intermission’. The romantic track between Somlata and a mysterious man (Kaushik Sen) does not seem to have any bearing on the main plot. It is difficult to understand why Pishima all of a sudden urges Somlata to bed the man. While her dialogue, “Swami to ghar e porar saree’r moto…porey porey rong uthe gechhe…porpurush holo benarasi, baluchari, jotoi gaaye jorabi totoi garam…”, is delightful, the love story which is literally nipped in the budding stage, does not seem to have any strong foundation. I guess the filmmaker could have given a little more screen-time to Somlata’s agony or sexual frustration of being separated from her husband who was on a business tour for months. Only then, Pishima’s insistence on sleeping with another man could have appeared more believable.

            The second half gets increasingly boring and forced with the appearance of Chaitali (Shrabonti) and the Mukti-Juddho track. The introduction of the Mukti-Juddho seems rather forced, and the way it is represented is extremely amateurish and flimsy. Chaitali’s involvement with the warriors does not seem convincing enough, for she lacks the depth and seriousness such a woman should have. Sen’s delineation of this character is most flawed and a tad too negligent I suppose. It is further marred by Shrabonti’s perfunctory performance. Although I would not say she is miscast, she is certainly a major disappointment. 

                        Although technically brilliant and quite perfectly edited at least in the first half, Goynar Baksho has not been able to do complete justice to Shirshendu Mukhopadhyay’s original story. There are, however, some other positives: Debojyoti Mishra’s music scores really high; all the songs are extremely melodious and easy on the ear. Soumik Haldar’s camera creates the right kind of mood and ambience in every frame. 

            Pishima’s heroic spookiness, as was expected, is the unique selling point, and the film deserves a watch only for her, if not anything else. 

Image Courtesy: icetrail.blogspot.com; www.venkateshfilms.com.

 

Iti Mrinalini: Love, Life and…

I was actually expecting to see something like Tennessee Williams’ The Milk Train Doesn’t Stop Here Anymore (1963) as the curtains went up on Iti Mrinalini, the latest Aparna Sen venture. Well, the Williams play and the Aparna Sen film do have similarities; but, of course, I gave up on the comparison much too soon. Any story of a successful commercial actor would have some parameters in common. In fact, Marilyn Monroe’s portrait that hangs in Mrinalini’s (Konkona Sensharma) room and is conspicuously focused on all through the film, speaks volumes to this end.
In a television interview, a few days before the release of the film, Sen said that she has never tried to convey any message through her films consciously; perhaps, no good artiste ever does that. But, somehow, Iti Mrinalini does send out a message, loud and clear; but, without being preachy or didactic, of course. I’ll come back to that later. In fact, not a single message; rather messages.
It’s not very difficult to see why Sen claims that Iti Mrinalini is the most commercial of all her films. Because the film is based on the life of some fictitious mainstream actor of Bengali films of the 1970s, it demanded a commercial treatment, no doubt. But, at the level of the plot too, the commercial aspect is much too evident. Actually too much happens in Mrinalini’s life. In fact, too many tragedies befall her, which, in a way, weaken the plot, as there is a prominent tendency to sentimentalizing. If good cinema refrains from being sentimental, this is definitely a flaw. But, seasoned audience of mainstream Bengali cinema of the 1970s, would be generous enough to give Sen the license to sentimentality; and I am sure I need not explain what I imply here. May be the screen life and the real life of the actor gets curiously mixed up. One may recall the unending series of trials and tribulations, a female protagonist of mainstream Bengali cinema generally underwent in those days, assisting a marvelous exercise of the lachrymose glands of the overly soft-hearted Bengali mothers and aunts (a construct, mind you) who poured into the theatres foregoing their usual afternoon nap. But yes, Sen has nowhere crossed the limits, for her Mrinalini is an apparently strong person.
The film has the structure of a bildungsroman: Mrinalini’s journey from the margins to the center. Although she accomplishes a lot in her professional field, she loses out on the personal front. Actually, more than anything else, Iti Mrinalini, is a love story. It’s the story of a woman who seeks love all through her life; but, it’s not that she doesn’t find any. May be she doesn’t find the kind of love she hankers for. Although Chintan Nair (Kaushik Sen) counsels her saying that she has never realized that love is of different kinds, Mrinalini does not seem convinced. A daughter out of wedlock, a non-committal lover who is inextricably tied to her family and who keeps on telling her that he would come to her one day…Mrinalini does not get the social recognition as a wife or a mother. She acts aunt to her daughter and keeps hoping that Siddhartha (Rajat Kapoor) would legally tie the knot one day. Exasperated she eventually breaks the relationship (“It’s over between us”), but it takes her long to arrive at the realization (assisted by Chintan, of course) that he too might have loved her in his own flawed way. It was love, nonetheless. Chintan becomes her friend, philosopher and guide, and defines for her another kind of love altogether. In fact, it’s a two-word message from him “Ami aschhi” (I am coming) that saves her from taking her life. The ‘message’ is that love may not only happen within socially approved structures of relationships only; love mostly transcends such constrictions. Although Mrinalini seems to accept what Chintan says, her reaction to Imtiaz’s (Priyanshu Chatterjee) betrayal appears a tad too immature. Why does she contemplate suicide? Hasn’t she seen enough so far as not to succumb to such duplicity?
Anyways, the film reaches a different level altogether in the end. Mrinalini is notorious for trying to control everything in her life. In fact, her young daughter calls her a control-freak. When she contemplates suicide, she says that entry on the stage of life was not in her hand, but she can certainly time the exit. But, little did she know that life was more absurd than it appeared to be. When thoughts of death finally desert her, and she goes out to walk her dog with a renewed enthusiasm for life, she is shot dead by a bullet targeting a young boy (Saheb Chattopadhyay) on the run. This very arbitrariness of life which Sen beautifully represents sends a chill down your spine. What you simultaneously realize is that you have come a long way off from the Naxalite 1970s Calcutta to dwell in a city where crime has become the order of the day. It’s difficult to guess who this boy is. But, the doubling of Mrinalini’s boyfriend Abhi does trace a journey of the city and the changing ideology of its young denizens.
I was absolutely overwhelmed by Konkona Senshrama’s mind-blowing performance; Rajat Kapoor does a decent job, and Anjan Dutt’s voice-over matches his personality well. The voice does not seem lent. Kaushik Sen imitates the South Indian accent really well, and delivers with aplomb. Even Saheb Chatterjee gives a believable performance. Kudos to Ananya Banerjee as Sohini, Mrinalini’s daughter. And last, but not the least, Aparna Sen herself. She is as glamorous as ever but she could have been a little more careful in imitating Konkona’s mannerisms.
And, of course, the songs! Am still humming Ajana Kono Golpo…I can’t really get over the magical spell of Bishe Bishe Neel…Debojyoti Mishra has done a fantastic job! The songs would stay on with us forever…and may be enough reason to go back to the theatre.

Wake up call

What do I write about Wake Up Sid? I do not really want to dissect it critically; it’s so innocently brilliant that you feel like sparing it of the critic’s weapons. Well, to put it simply, Wake Up Sid is like coming home to love. It is a wake up call to all those who create a mayhem about falling in love, who rake up a melodrama more often than not...for, love may also happen, just like that! The film gives you a feel that such love can perhaps only happen in Bombay, our very own Bombay. The disclaimer in the very beginning of the film apologizes for referring to the city as Bombay more often than as Mumbai recalling the agonizing history of the riots that had tore the most tolerant city into shreds. At the same time, it overwrites that history of hatred with a simple tale of love between a Calcutta girl who comes to the city to become independent and a Bombay boy who refuses to grow up. The Chor Bazaar, the Marine Lines, the Bandra housing complexes, and several nooks and corners of the city feature in a big-small way to consolidate the foundation of the lover’s nest the film builds brick by brick.

Sid (Ranbir Kapoor) and Ayesha (Konkona Sen Sharma) are both familiar to us: they are with us in college, in our office, on the roads we travel everyday, in the cafes we often visit. It’s the era of the middle class youth: self-respect, independence, open-mindedness, and responsibility. The film celebrates the spirit of the Generation X, but without moralising, without sounding didactic. Like all good art, it shows; doesn’t tell. Sid’s mother (Supriya Pathak) with her flawed English and awfully middle class dress sense is absolutely loveable. She has never been to school, but has grown up into a modern mother who doesn’t shed buckets of tears at the prospect of her only son living in with a single woman. Her foray into the upper class (because of her husband’s rise in social status) has left her slightly uncomfortable; yet, the film is much too subtle in representing her comic discomfiture. No hullabaloo, no melodrama! It’s just there for you to see.

Konkana looks awesome; and Ranbir impersonalizes Sid, as if he was born to play this character. Sid’s friends are brilliant too, reminding you often of the not-so-good-looking group of Jaane Tu Yaa Jane Na. It’s not that we have not heard this Wake Up Sid story before. It’s not that we did not anticipate the ending at the very beginning. But you stay on, as if by some emotional compulsion, to see how it all happens. And it happens the right way. As you leave the theatre, the iktara continues to hum in the cores of your heart, and it never seems to stop!

NB: Those who are interested in home décor, please note how Ayesha does up her flat.