Chotushkon: Triangles and Tragedies

The seemingly complex parallelepiped-like structure that encloses the title of Srijit Mukherji’s Chotushkon is a figurative representation of the plot which unfolds to reveal several twists and turns, surprising the audience with its sudden shift to a popular generic mode, which was unanticipated. But, for an alert viewer, the end should not come as a surprise: as it happens with several Hollywood thrillers, the more fastidious audience would constantly be nagged by the film’s prelude to the main plot. Beginning with a macabre suicide, the film leaps into a sophisticated world of filmmakers, three veteran and another struggling (completing the Chotushkon), who set out to make a film, which would be a bouquet of four shorts, each linked by a common theme: death! 

  

Actually, three different texts seem to operate without any apparent connection; and within those three texts, three other texts are inserted (shot in three different filters, green, red and blue), with a fourth text constantly signalling its possible emergence but never materialising. Interestingly, as this fourth text is anticipated with a lot of expectation, the twist comes with the audience realizing that they have been always already inhabiting this fourth text, without knowing. (If one notices the deployment of the three different filters, RGB, it would not be difficult to apprehend the fourth story. It's technically already there...the three filters merge to produce colour scale of the fourth story, the main story....it demands a little more attention!)

The plot gets even more layered as the characters within the main plot also realize that they have been made to perform within a text, plotted long time back. It’s as complex as the line structure that encapsulates the title! One really needs to pay attention to find one’s way out of this maze of overlapping fictions.

What makes Chotushkon an interesting watch is how the geometrical structure of the quadrilateral is deconstructed into a triangle, which becomes the base of, not one, but a triple tragedy. Srijit Mukherji seems to have come a long way from his Hemlock Society or Mishwar Rohoshyo to conceive something as intriguing as this. Located firmly in Tollygunje, the film to a great extent is auto-reflexive, concurring within it several intertexts (some a little too obvious, some subtle). This auto-reflexivity engenders a rare humour that undercuts the predominantly dismal circumstances in which the film starts, and seems to meander into now and then. Sample this: When Dipu (Chiranjeet Chakraborty, alias Dipak Chakraborty in real life) proposes a plot about an eccentric man, devastated at his wife’s death, he introduces his wife as Banalata and the framed picture shows Kirron Kher in her Devdas avatar. Several discourses are in operation here. First, Chiranjeet had played the treacherous lover to Kirron Kher’s Banalata in Rituparno Ghosh’s classic Bariwali. Kher also played Parvati’s mother Sumitra in Sanjay Bhansali’s 2002 adaptation of Devdas, and had appeared more comic than tragic in her exaggerated boisterousness. While Banalata is a victim of a man’s ruthless exploitation and is still remembered for her composure, poise and muted agony, Sumitra is etched in the memory of the Indian audience for her loudness and over-the-top, high-strung melodrama. The conflation of the two images (which also symbolise merging two different gharanas of filmmaking) in the framed photograph, therefore, appears hilarious, provided the audience could make the connection. This little scene also functions as a small tribute to Rituparno Ghosh who was supposed to play Jayabrata (the role now essayed by Parambrata Chattopadhyay). If Ghosh had played this character it would certainly have a different name.

And there's the unmistakable 36 Chowringhee Lane and Mr. and Mrs. Iyer connection. Aparna Sen had shot into fame as a director with the former revolving around a lonely Anglo-Indian English teacher, who is eventually betrayed by her favourite student. With Aparna Sen as the conjurer in the third film-within-the film, Mukherji makes it a palimpsest of her career as it were. Mrs. Meenakshi Iyer (Mr. and Mrs. Iyer) come together with Violet Stoneham (here Miss Havisham in the second film within the film, the Great Expectations link going very well with the English teacher in the third story) creating a thrilling memory game as it were. 

In another scene, towards the climax, posters of popular films hanging on the wall, act as interesting intertexts for the film in discussion. Through posters of such hardcore commercial films (specially, Protishodh and Troyee, which also hint at the theme) Mukherji makes a conscious effort to locate his own film in history.  The Aranyer Dinratri poster, on the other hand, becomes a literal reminder of the final setting: a bunglow in the middle of a dense forest. Sesh Anko again underscores the theme of murder and retribution. Nemesis? However, this could have been done far more subtly.

One of the primary strengths of the film is its cast: Parambrata Chattopadhyay is brilliant, in his easy-going, slightly effete and vulnerable disposition as the youngest of the foursome. Aparna Sen is restrained and it is interesting to note how she plays herself, but with a detachment. Chiranjit Chakraborty surprises by his performance which is comparable only to Dipankar in Bariwali. This time he speaks in his own voice though. Goutam Ghose is real, and delivers satisfactorily. But, it’s Kaushik Ganguly who leaves an indelible impression. The Payel-Indrashish-Rahul trio needed a lot more grooming though. They barley appeared as belonging to the 70s...the grey-scale did not help much.

Anyway, whether spring has returned to Tollygunje is difficult to confirm, but Chotushkone would surely contribute to expedite its arrival, given others also come up with equally interesting stories, not just a dumb Dev gyrating to cacophonous music in exotic locales and punching blood out of puppet-like goons. Bangla Cinema has always sustained itself on good storytelling, not on special effects or action (that’s why a Bangla Troy with Moonmoon Sen as Helen appears so classically hilarious); and Chotushkone tells the story well.

Apur Panchali: Rediscovering a phenomenon

Kaushik Ganguly who has been moving from strength to strength since Ar Ekti Premer Golpo reaching an acme of brilliance with Shobdo, revisits the most celebrated film in the history of Indian Cinema, Ray’s Pather Panchali, pulling out of oblivion its lead actor, extolled across the globe as the most eminent child artiste. This partly imaginary, partly real biopic of Subir Bandopadhyay (Ray’s Apu) charts the actor’s life which is remarkably, almost uncannily similar to Apu’s in several aspects.

The parallels drawn between Bandopadhyay’s life story and footages from Ray’s trilogy while locating the film in the great tradition of Indian art-house cinema (note the film is shot in ‘flat’ format, recalling yesteryear 35mm films), also celebrate that iconic moment in the history of Indian Cinema that marked a break from the past and altered film aesthetics forever. Ganguly pays homage to Ray, while, at the same time, traces the after-life of his most well-known child actor. Bandopadhyay did not have a screen life ever; his was an ordinary life away from the shutterbugs and media paparazzi; he was never really known. In this documentary-style narrative, Ganguly begins with Uma Dasgupta (Ray’s Durga) and Nemai Ghosh (Ray’s photographer) who speak about Bandopadhyay briefly before the fictionalized narrative starts unfolding. If Ganguly was deliberately mixing styles, I would ask him, why didn’t he interview the public, both in India and abroad, to reinforce his starting point? The voice of the audience is totally missing, and had Ganguly been a little more enterprising, he could have actually brought that out to corroborate that Bandopadhyay indeed is one of the most sought after child artistes of world cinema even today. The voice of the audience could have now and then intercut the narrative. This was necessary because Bandopadhyay was away from the public eye for more than half a century; he would not be recognised by anyone on the streets. Yet, he has enjoyed an enviable stardom, trapped in his child avatar. People remember him as Apu, and most people do not even know him as Subir Bandopadhyay. By making an SRFTI student pursue the fictional Subir to consent to travel all the way to Germany to receive a prestigious award, Ganguly made it seem that the actor only exits in the memory of film scholars who can go to any end to “do” anything “for” the Ray classic. The absence of the voice of the common people is indeed glaring. Remember, Pather Panchali was quite a box-office success, apart from winning unprecedented accolades in festival circuits!           

Apart from this conspicuous lack, Apur Panchali if not flawless, is quite an interesting watch. By replicating few frames and background scores from the Ray trilogy, and juxtaposing the frames with the old footages, Ganguly intelligently conflates the reel-life and real-life Apu, sometimes leaving you agape at the incredible similarities. It’s also interesting how Ganguly evokes a political context, the raging Naxalite Movement that swept across Bengal leading to the formation of the first leftist government in 1977. This connection is indeed laudable, for those were the years when neorealist Bengali cinema was time and again returning to the movement, celebrating it and anticipating a more promising future which it could herald. Mrinal Sen and Ritwik Ghatak were more articulately left-wing than Ray; but, the latter too had lent his voice in a more symbolic-allegorical way to this life-changing political tumult that rocked Bengal in the 1970s. Subir Bandopadhyay’s formative years in college and his participation in the Naxalite Movement must have roughly coincided with the release of Ray’s Calcutta trilogy. If Ganguly had been a little more scrupulous, he should have put up a few posters of one of these Ray films on the walls of the city to make the connection more hard-hitting. However, the film turns inwards from this political upheaval outside much too quickly to dwell on the domestic space of Bandopadhyay, which seems to be a partly real life enactment of Apur Sansar.

Now in his sixties, Ray’s Apu lives a solitary life in a crumbling house and seems to consciously distance himself from his screen avatar. Ray had not found him suitable for Aparajito; he had been offered other roles too, but his parents objected. He had never experienced the limelight himself. His stardom is as distant to his consciousness as are Apu and Pather Panchali today. Leading a pretty ordinary life, the aging Subir speaks with hurt pride, every time his stardom is mentioned. Ardhendu tries his best to bring out a sense of abandonment and negligence; but, what seems to irk is his obtrusive physical dissimilarity with Parambrata Chattopadhyay who plays the younger Subir. It requires a tremendous effort to suspend disbelief: how did Parambrata age into Ardhendu? No way! But, Parambrata is brilliant; Parno Mitra fits well into the character, but she needed to work on her Bengali accent. She sounds almost urban. Those playing character roles are the ones to watch out for; they remind of those luminous character artistes who lent abiding support to the heroes and heroines in the 50s, 60s, and 70s. It was good to see Shobha Sen so many years after her amazing performance as the frail grandmother in Ghosh’s Abohoman! Kaushik Ganguly’s cameo as Subir’s colleague is also marvellous. He should act more.

It’s heart-warming that despite all the Paglus and Khokababus and all other such nonsensical stuff ruling the roost in Tollywood, films such as Apur Panchali is being made and is finding an audience. Kudos to Kaushik Ganguly for sticking to his guns, despite commercial pressure! And, please note it’s Venkatesh Films which has backed this film financially! Yes, they are the ones who had generously funded Ghosh for Chokher Bali and later supported him through many films, including his last two. Aparna Sen’s Goynar Baksho too was funded by them. It’s wonderful to see them supporting such projects as Apur Panchali!

But I can’t help pointing this out. Although not really remakes, such

 films as Apur Panchali, Kamaleshwar Mukhopadhyay’s Meghe 

Dhaka Tara, and Srijit Mukherji’s Jaatishwar which was released a

 few months before and set the box-office bells ringing loud, are 

much too dependent on nostalgia to draw the urban cine-goer! No?

 Nostalgia in other words is trending now, and is cashed in upon

 much too often to lure the educated middle class Bengali audience

 back to the theatre. Come to think of it, the colossal hit Bhooter

 Bhabishyot  (Dir. Aneek Dutta), also heavily depended on

 nostalgia only! But yes, the four films I have named are also

 original in their own way...but it’s nostalgia for a more glorious 

cinematic past which drove them on. No doubts about that! But, 

it’s also disturbing in a certain way! 

'Kahaani': Fact of fiction of fictitious fact

What is Kahaani all about? Kahaani is, well, about a fiction…erm…a story. Kahaani, technically speaking, is also about storytelling…as in how to tell a story…Well, Kahaani is also about fabrication, what fiction usually does…and the truth literally turns out to be stranger than fiction…a truth which is fictive, but not impossible. And like all good kahaanis, Kahaani too unfolds catalyzing in every reel a nail-biting curiosity of “What happens next”, finally leaving you bewildered, baffled, and confounded. Once the initial bewilderment wanes and the kahaani sinks in (both these happen in a jiffy), a deep pleasure is all that you feel: it’s akin to having finding your way out of a bemusing labyrinth on your own. Sujoy Ghosh and Advaita Kala (in association with Suresh Nair and Nikhil Vyas) have done a marvellous job! Namrata Rao’s scissors and adhesive have cut and joined the frames with remarkable adroitness attributing to the narrative just the right kind of pace.
The film has employed the mother-motif to an unforeseen effect: a pregnant woman in search of her husband. Sympathy rarely rains on her, as she finds herself caught in a quagmire of dangerous crimes that lurk in the underbelly of an apparently warm city. Kahaani tells a hitherto untold story of Kolkata, jolting the audience into an awareness of evil that resides in the interstices of the city. Here, Kolkata is no longer the romantic city of Tagore’s poetry and rosogolla revolving around the pleasant colonial hangover of the Victoria Memorial; nor is it the city of the unassuming Bengali bhadrolok. In fact, on closer observation, the city does not seem to belong to Bengalis any more. Ghosh de-romanticizes Kolkata to an extent no Bollywood film has ever does. The brief prefatory fragment metonymically related to the main narrative invokes an anxiety about the city that is increasingly intensified not to be resolved ever. A sense of uneasiness refuses to desert you long after the curtains come down. (I was half in mind to avoid the Metro while returning home) Kahaani has ended up defamiliarizing Kolkata sufficiently. The Benjaminian concept of the city as labyrinth has hereby acquired a new dimension.
Vidya Balan enacts a pregnant mother with so much credibility that, well…you know…I mean she carries the baby bump really well. The way she walks, the anxiety of not finding her husband that grows with every passing moment and in her lighter moments with the two children (Vishnu and Poltu)…Vidya, erm, Bidya is perhaps the most believable of all on-screen carrying moms we have seen so far. Next year too the National Award for the Best Actor (Female) should be in her custody. Thanks to Roshmi Banerjee, the casting director. Parambrata, Kharaj, Dhritiman, Nazawuddin Siddiqui and Shantilaal are perfect choices for the roles they have essayed. However, it is Saswata Chatterjee who steals the show, cold-bloodedly. I still feel goose-bumps as I think of his Bob Biswas.
Kahaani is after all based on an age-old theme; I wont tell you which. But it has been given such a makeover that you do not realize that all along you were watching a known story. That’s why I said in the beginning that Kahaani is also about “how to tell a tale”. One of the best films in the recent years, Kahaani deserves no less than a nine out of ten in all the categories, except perhaps in the musical one. In any case, music is not its mainstay. It’s the kahaani!

'Baishey Shrabon': Death of Poetry and a Deadly ‘System’!

It’s extremely difficult to review a thriller, for you often tend to give out the plot, which, of course, is commercially murderous for the film. Srijit Mukherjee’s Baishe Shrabon is primarily a thriller, but it is much more than that. The very title of the film, I believe, underscores the hegemony of the poet who has of late become so literally omnipresent (thanks to the farce the new government has made of him) that all other Bengali poets have been swept into oblivion. Sukanta, Sukumar, Binay, Shakti, Joy Goswami, and others are still esoteric property while Tagore has found access to the popular domain: none can deny Tagore’s superlative potentials as a poet; but this is also irrefutable that a politics of canonization can be discerned in analysing Tagore’s massive popularity and the comparatively lesser recognition the other poets have received. The climactic moment of the film therefore coincides with 'Baishe Shrabon', the day Tagore breathed his last. Interestingly, both Abhijeet and Prabir have to take the assistance of Google to find out the days on which the ‘lesser known’ poets have passed away.


On the other hand, the film is also about the death of poetry. A mad poet, who had set fire to the Calcutta Book Fair for publishers had time and again refused to publish his poetry, is at the centre of the narrative. Baishe Shrabon is different from other thrillers because it is not just about finding out with bated breath ‘whodunit’; it also engages the audience in working out the clue that may be hidden in the poetic lines found in the chits beside every victim. Interestingly, the victims are all from the lowest stratum of society, and the verses found next to them are predominantly proletariat in nature. Although the film does not clarify the choice of such verses, the silence speaks volumes. In fact, there is no criminal in Baishe Shrabon! It is the system! The reference to the anti-Establishment poetic movement (Hungry Movement) of the 60s is of special significance here.


Baishe Shrabon has adroitly blended the esoteric and the populist to a marvellous effect. The handling of the camera, especially in the narrow alleyways of the slum and in the last scene, is simply brilliant. Anupam Ray has not been able to recreate the Autograph magic though. However, Gobhire jao, profoundly rendered by Rupankar, stays with you long after the film is over.


The most promising performance is offered by Parambrata: it is his best, till date. He emotes perfectly, almost flawless; his comic timing is enviable; his accent, recalling his ‘Bengali medium’ background, is awesome. Prasenjit does not disappoint either, as was expected, although the character he plays has affiliation with several suspended police officers we have seen in numerous Hindi films; but, nonetheless, he is good. Raima Sen is effortless and Abir is loveable. The surprise package, however, is Goutam Ghosh. He animates Nibaran Chakraborty with so much life that you do feel your eyes moisten at his death.


Big Cinemas had a considerable number of viewers on Ashtami morning, and that speaks for the success the film is already enjoying. Wishing Baishey Shrabon a long run at the box-office! And a request: Those of you who have already watched the film, please do not give out the end! It does not deserve to be given out, really. People must go and find out for themselves, and believe me, it’s worth it.