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/

The truth about Satyanweshi

The title of this review might appear arrogant for it seems to make a rather lofty claim of unveiling the truth about Rituparno Ghosh’s last film Satyanweshi. What truth needs to be told about this film given to truth-searching itself? The truth which a certain segment of the audience seems to have missed and the truth which might provide a counter-discourse to the mass-slandering the film has been an undeserving victim of. 

 
My first question: Ghosh had made practically unwatchable films, yet the media went out of its way to praise them. Example: Sob Choritro Kalponik. Example: Khela. Example: The Last Lear. Particularly the local media! Why?  Because, Rituparno Ghosh wielded such power that nobody seemed to have the guts to confront it? Now that he is no more, the slander that was long overdue is being unrestrainedly showered on a film which does not really deserve such harsh disparagement. I can vouch that had he been alive, Satyanweshi would have been, indubitably, espoused by the media as the best Byomkesh adaptation on screen! And such celebration, I would contend, would not have been conceited. Despite its many flaws, Satyanweshi is undeniably the best Byomkesh adaptation, although unfortunately, Ghosh did not have any reputed precedent to compete with: Satyajit Ray’s Chiriyakhana is pathetic, while the two Anjan Dutta films are better forgotten than remembered. 

What is remarkable about the film is that it commendably complicates Sharadindu’s Chora Bali which has a rather weak plot. In fact, Ghosh weaves together two totally unconnected plot strands of the original novel to unravel the complex domestic reality of a feudal family of Balwantpur, whereby a simple whodunit story acquires an intriguing dimension. A rather predictable murder-motive, which unfortunately, becomes evident only after a few pages in the original novel, is located within the larger discourse of patriarchal tyranny and its complicity with an economic base on which human relationships are founded or defined by. The death of the murderer in Satyanweshi is also the death of the tyrannical father, although his death does not assure agency to the daughter left behind. Both Alaka (Arpita Chatterjee) and Lila (Anandi Ghose), the first apparently powerful and the other, totally powerless, turn out to be unsuspecting victims of a system, rather than the brutal conspiracy of an individual. The women, Alaka and Lila, notwithstanding their opposing class positions, end up being (non)actors in a narrative designed and carried forwarded by a master-plotter. Harinath (Anirban Ghosh) is victimized as well, for having unwittingly entered the plot and impeding it, by revealing himself as a potential threat to the finely orchestrated conspiracy that was underway. Immersed in books and music and extraordinarily meticulous about his duties, Harinath offers a counterpoint to a more aggressive masculinity that must always control and eliminate any threat that impedes its mode of operation. 

Sharadindu’s simplistic Chora Bali, therefore, develops into a layered narrative of power dynamics that work within a class-gender nexus. The film demands painstaking attention from the viewer for the resolution is built-up through dialogue, not much through visuals (which is and has always been a significant drawback of Ghosh films); the activity of watching Satyanweshi is quite akin to reading a book or listening to a story, but that does not mar the experience of watching the film, for the entire film is more of an exercise of the mind for Byomkesh (Sujoy Ghosh), rather than action in the literal sense of the term. Please note how Ghosh very skillfully engineers a pun in the name of the site of action, that is Balwantpur, (on which Sharadindu does not even dwell) to connect it to the main plot. 

The film carries Ghosh’s auteuristic signature in its sets, costumes, music, mannerisms of characters, obsession with the film industry and deployment of intertexts. Like all other Rituparno Ghosh films, Satyanweshi remains a narrative-driven chamber drama (although North Bengal was the location for a major part of the film) and evokes the characteristic bourgeois nostalgia for feudal opulence (as is evident in period films). Through the deployment of intelligent intertexts (Bees Saal Baad, The Hound of the Baskerville, Chiriyakhana, etc.), Ghosh makes an attempt to place the film in the tradition of detective or mystery fiction, which again, has been a common practice with the filmmaker, who has often spoken back to the tradition of literature and cinema to which his own work is a new addition. What’s partially new is his experimentation with non-actors --- Sujoy Ghosh, Anindya Chattopadhyay, Sibaji Bandopadhyay, Anandi Ghose and Sanjay Nag! All of them are believable, although Sujoy’s stiffness comes across too glaringly in certain scenes. 

Now for the flaws: there are indeed far too many, few very silly ones, unexpected of a Rituparno Ghosh film. The film forgets to elaborate the conditions of the will left by the deceased king of Balwantpur on which the main plot is significantly based. It makes the characters speak in a language which sounds too contemporary; especially, the English words and phrases the characters use seem totally out of tune with the time in which the film is set; it’s ridiculous that Himanshu (Indraneil Sengupta) is taken to the dilapidated building blindfolded; wasn’t it dark enough for him to implement his extraordinary skill? Why does Kaligati (Sibaji Bandopadhyay) refuse that he has indeed removed two Ayurveda books from the library? Byomkesh and Ajit (Anindya Chattopadhyay) set a few questions independently and then compare them in order to solve the mystery of Harinath’s sudden disappearance. Surprisingly, the questions come typed on designer chits! When did they have the time to have the questions typed out and that too in a format that could only be possible with computers? There are far too many flaws which I refrain from cataloguing here. But, what I did not understand is that how is it possible that none, but one person in the entire estate is aware of the exact location of the quicksand, if it had always been there? The novel too provides no answer to this. 

Finally, I would like to raise this question: can we call Satyanweshi a Rituparno Ghosh film at all? It’s an incomplete work after all, completed by his team members. I have seen him shuffling scenes time and again till the last day before the film released! Had he been present on the editing table many flaws could have been eliminated. Had he supervised the dubbing neither Sujoy nor Indraneil would have spoken such accented Bangla. Had he seen the final cuts, he would have reshot entire scenes, for example the picnic sequence. Nothing looks more staged than that. But, Ghosh cannot be forgiven for such terribly constricted frames, even in outdoor scenes! Why is a huge palatial mansion reduced into a cramped corridor, a library, a temple and three rooms? Why isn’t the enormity of the palace at Balwantpur put to use in full to space-out the layered narrative? Why does Ghosh give the feel that it’s a television drama? Ghosh had indeed never learned to use the endless possibilities of the cinematic canvas! Perhaps he did not want to. Given that Satyanweshi is a Shree Ventakesh Films production, Ghosh wasn’t certainly working on a shoe-string budget to confine his camera within the walls of over-furnished rooms.  

Yet, despite its many flaws, the film is highly watchable. It would be unjust to dismiss the film as bad! No it isn’t! And, do not miss out the very subtle, almost invisible homoerotic strain that undercut the Byomkesh-Ajit relationship.

 
Image courtesy: SVF website.

Rituparno Ghosh: The Kingly Queen

It’s extremely difficult to write about Rituparno Ghosh. Although he would be remembered as a filmmaker, I would say he was also a filmmaker among many other things. He was the keenest learner I have ever met, always aspiring to know more. He was often known to have approached people, notwithstanding age or fame, with his child-like appeal: Amake eta ektu poriye dibi/debe? (Will you teach me this?). Even to the last day of his life, he went on learning and unlearning. When it came to learning new things, he was as vulnerable and eager as a five-year old who was being ushered into the world of knowledge for the first time. He was an excellent teacher too, and could mould his views depending upon who he was addressing.

Read on:

http://www.cinemachronicles.in/rituparno-ghosh-the-kingly-queen/

Image courtesy: photogallery.indiatimes.com

Rituparno Ghosh in dialogue with Kaustav Bakshi: "I know my city can neither handle me nor ignore me"

This was indeed long pending....the conversation with Rituparno Ghosh which began on 13 July 2012 on a very official note, transmuted into a very candid palaver over the next few months...the interview before it went to press, has since then undergone many changes....what you have here is a collage of the snippets of conversation I have had with Ghosh over a couple of months....It was impossible to accommodate all of that....nonetheless, the interview is immensely illuminating and you would certainly find Ghosh at his candid best!

Reference: Silhouette: A Discourse of Cinema, Vol. 10, no. 3 (2013).
Link: http://silhouette-mag.wikidot.com/vol10-3

For a better view look up:
http://www.scribd.com/fullscreen/138316934?access_key=key-xu9tavney2vdf37oak2

Image courtesy: www.youtube.com, ABP Ananda.

Chitrangada: a crowning wish

Why Chitrangada?

Rituparno Ghosh’s latest borrows the title of Tagore’s poetic play (more popular in its condensed form as a dance-drama) and adds an appendix to it: ‘a crowning wish’. This play was adapted by Tagore from an episode in The Mahabharata, and in its preface, the poet shares his thoughts which went into its conception: while travelling from Shantinekatan to Kolkata in late spring, the poet was struck by the abundance of the season as he looked out of the train window. The fertility of the season would manifest itself in early summer, when the trees would modestly exhibit their fecundity in the loads of fruits that would hang from their branches. Simultaneously, a strange thought came to the poet:

…hothat amar mone holo sundori juboti Jodi onubhob kore je se taar jouboner maya diye premik er hridoy bhuliyechhe tahole se taar surup kei apon soubhagyer mukhyo ongshe bhaag boshabar obhijog e sotin boley dhikkar ditey pare. E je tar bairer jinish, e jeno rituraaj bosonter kachh theke pawa bor, khonik moho bistar er dwara joibo uddeshyo siddho korbar jonyo jodi tar ontorer modhye jothartho charitrpshakti thake, tobey sei mohomukto shaktir daani taar premik er pokkhe mohot laabh, jugol jibon er jayayatra r sahaye. (Rabindra Natya Sangraha, Prothom Khanda, 327)

To summarize: The poet’s intention of composing Chitrangada was to establish the beauty of the soul over the beauty of the body, the latter being temporal and therefore undesirable. When Chitrangada became a dance –drama, Tagore had it open with the following prologue:

Manipur Raj er bhakti te tushto hoye, Shib bor dilen je raajbongshe sudhumatro putroi janmabe. Totsatweo, jokhon rajkul e Chitrangada r janmo holo, Raja takey putro roop e palon korte thaklen…

(Pleased by the devotion of the King of Manipur, Lord Shiva granted him the boon that the royal family would only bear male children. Even then, when Chitrangada was born to the royal family, the King brought her up like a son…)

The two phrases “even then” and “like a son” are important:

1. A woman who is born debunking divine decree is expected to be unique.
2. A woman, who is conditioned to become a man, epitomizes the reality of the social construction of gender.
3. The King of Manipur imposes his wish on his daughter and rears him like a son.

Ritupano Ghosh’s film takes off from these three possible inferences that could be drawn from the prologue of the dance-drama, although the profundity of the original seems wanting. Smitten by Arjun, Chitrangada approaches Madan, the God of Love, to bestow upon her feminine grace and beauty for a year, so that Arjun falls in love with her. Madan relents and grants her the boon; hence, the famed transformation from Kurupa to Surupa (please note these are not Tagore’s terms). However, Chitrangada, recognizing the superfluity of physical beauty, returns the boon before that promised one year is over. Perhaps, the most recognizable literal link between Tagore’s text and Ghosh’s film lies here: Rudra too calls off his cosmetic transformation into a woman, and chooses to remain what he was.

At the very outset, Rudra (Ghosh himself) interprets Chitrangada as the ‘story of a wish’: Chitrangada’s wish versus her father’s wish. But, it’s more about the performativity of gender; or in other words, the fact that gender performance is an illusion, best expressed in the song:

Narir lalita lobhon lilaye ekhoni keno e klanti/ekhoni ki sokha khela holo oboshan/je madhur rosey chhile bihvala, se ki madhumakha bhranti…seki swapner daan, seki satyer opomaan/…dur durashaye hriday gorichho kothin premer protima gorichho/…ki mone bhabia nari te korichho pourush sandhan, eo ki maya r daan?

 The repeated use of such words and phrases as lila (dalliance), khela (play), bihvala (stupefaction), madhumakha bhranti (charming error), swapner daan or mayar daan (an illusory gift) underscore the very illusory nature of gender performativity (seki satyer opomaan). Rituparno Ghosh’s Chitrangada begins with the promise of playing with this very notion, but loses track in the course of the development of the plot, returning to a plausible end, though. Given the access to modern technology which is adept to change the body, the possibility of playing with the ideas of body, gender and sexuality was enormous. The film displays awareness of the same, but doesn’t convincingly execute it.

The central conflict is not between Rudra and any other external force; rather, it is a confounded conflict within him. The apparent problem with the origin of the wish (here, the wish to become a woman) is that it has no credible history. It’s born one fine morning when Rudra discovers Partha’s (Jishu Sengupta) fondness for children. Consequently, he descends into sentimental musings about how Partha would never be happy with him, for he would never be able to bear him children. Two male parents cannot even adopt a child. In order to sustain the relationship, Rudra decides to undergo a gender reassignment surgery. And, in no time, the desire becomes so overwhelming that he actually consults a doctor, and goes in for breast implant. Please note, Partha never asks him to opt for this. In fact, the reality of Partha’s discomfort with the sex-change dawns on Rudra when the former tells him that he was in love with a man; if he had to, he would rather have a real woman, than a synthetic one, not a ‘half-thing’. Despite the political incorrectness of Partha’s invective, I would say this is the most ‘queer’ moment of the film. Although Rudra is shattered and censures Partha for his insensitivity, it is difficult not to sympathize with the latter’s view. It is much later, however, that Rudra admits to Shubho (Anjan Dutta) that he could not blame Partha.

Commendably, therefore, the film recognizes the multiplicity of desires, unwittingly or knowingly; but, the film does not ponder over the sudden change in Rudra’s decision on the day of the final surgery. Apart from that one mysterious text message (‘Why do you call a BUILDING a building even when it is complete?’), that recognizes the fact that the body is into a perennial process of change, there is no elucidation. Rudra abandons as abruptly as he had plunged into exercising his desire. Is it because of a realization that a desire to enter a compulsive heteronormative structure (by becoming a woman) is redundant for it ‘dis-empowers’ him by taking away from him the gender fluidity he has so far embodied?  If that is so, the use of Tagore’s Chitrangada as the reference text might be found just. But, we can only speculate.

Spaces, In-Between

The film demands of the audience painstaking attention; for the narrative not only moves back and forth in time, but also inhabits both real and surreal spaces simultaneously. The stage, the sea beach, the hospital cabin and the operation theatre become a spatial continuum, and the protagonist often exists in more than one space at the same time. This deliberate confusion of the real and the surreal is perhaps the most appealing aspect of the film, for it opens up the right kind of space to accommodate gender liminality. The sexual Other who debunks normativity often acquires monstrous dimensions in the cultural imagination. Therefore, it was important to situate Rudra in a fluid space where the real and the surreal coalesce. In any case, the film is also a celebration of a fancy (as in wish), for which the classical realistic mode would not have worked. The three text messages from some mysterious sender, and the enigmatic counselor Shubho who turns out to be Rudra’s double fit well into this surreal mode.

However, the three philosophical text messages, especially the last one, (‘If driving in a drunken state is not allowed, why do bars have parking lots?’, ‘Everybody wants to go to Heaven, but no one wants to die’ and ‘Why do call a BUILDING a building even after it is complete?’) could have had a greater impact, if it wasn’t explicated. The final explanation given by Shubho robs the message of its intensity. And, the nurse telling Rudra that he must have been hallucinating all these days is completely undesirable. The problem is Ghosh assumed his audience to be intelligent, but could not completely depend on their acumen. Had Shubho remained elusive till the end, the surreal mode would have been highly successful. (May be it's a compromise he had to make keeping in mind the box-office!)

The Journey

The questions, the confusions, the anxieties, and the agony that assail Rudra before he undergoes the final surgery do not seem unreal. It’s quite natural to go through these states of mind before changing one’s biological sex. Rudra is lucky enough to have such understanding parents (Dipankar De and Anashuya Majumdar) who stand by him through the process. It’s a tad painful that Rudra continuously sees his father as a tyrannical patriarch who has never approved of his son’s effeminacy; but, the father does not come across as tyrannical as he was meant to be. Or perhaps, it is Rudra’s imagination that fathers are always tyrannical that makes him look upon him thus. The parents accept their son’s decision with a reserve unexpected of middle class Bengali parents in general. Rudra’s parents are remarkably exceptional to that end. However, a major Freudian slip occurs on the part of the father when he says that they have bought new curtains to do up Rudra’s room. Perhaps, the father still wants to keep him under wraps, away from curious eyes. In his subconscious, he still thinks of his son as a social embarrassment, notwithstanding his compassion for him. The curtains remain uppermost in Rudra’s mind too; when he meets his erstwhile boyfriend in dreamy darkroom, he does not forget to mention them. Has Rudra too not been able to accept himself?

                

 Rudra does not undergo the final surgery, and decides to return to his original self. The abandonment of the quest is not affected by some sense of guilt, but he no longer feels the necessity of a cosmetic transmogrification. Now, this is what Rudra feels; this is his crowning wish. It would be incorrect to see the film as a cautionary against sex-change; or as a moralistic narrative that ends with the dictum that sex-change is undesirable. It’s important to understand Rudra’s story as the story of an individual. His ‘wish’ cannot be representative of the community, and he cannot be held responsible for not exacting the expectation of the community of transpersons. Taking Rudra’s final decision as a statement on sex-change might be dangerous.

How autobiographical is Chitrangada?

This is one question which is nagging everyone and many are flocking to the theater to see Rituparno Ghosh’s life-story. Towards the beginning of the film, Shubho listening to a script read out by Rudra, asks with concern: ‘Boddo beshi autobiographical hoye jachche na?’ (Isn’t it becoming much too autobiographical?) Rudra replies: ‘Seta tumi jano boley’ (You think so because you already know my story). The film self-reflexively introduces the autobiographical dimension. In fact, the repetitive use of mirrors in the film prompts the audience to see Rudra as an image of Rituparno Ghosh. But, to treat the film as a purely self-indulgent autobiography of the director would be rather reductive. It’s undeniable that Ghosh’s iconic status (as a filmmaker and also as a queer person) remarkably overpowers the character he essays, and it’s extremely difficult not to think of Rudra as a fictional counterpart of Ghosh. For instance, if Sachin Tendulkar plays anybody but himself in a film, it would be difficult for the audience to imagine him as just another actor attempting a fictitious character. Ditto for Rituparno Ghosh. I believe many were even expecting to read under ‘Cast’ on the title card ‘Rituparno Ghosh as himself’. But Rudra’s story, despite containing recognizable allusions to the director’s personal life, is completely fictional, as attested by the disclaimer at the beginning. And I’m sure Ghosh did not intend Chitrangada: a crowing wish to serve as a medium of confession. Even if he had intended, there’s no need to bother. For, we have long stopped taking authorial intention seriously. Thanks to Roland Barthes and Michel Foucault. 

Note: The film would be remembered for its use of spectacle, music (Debojyoti Mishra), and of course, the choreography (Sharmila Biswas). 

Image Courtesy: sliceoflife.com

Release date of the film: 31 August 2012

Producer: Shri Venkatesh Films, Kolkata

Noukadubi: With and Beyond Rabindranath

Initially, I was rather apprehensive of Noukadubi (The Boatwreck), for I was rather disappointed with this Tagore novel, for it is perhaps the weakest of his prose-fictions, in terms of plot. The plot turns on too many glaring coincidences, much in the manner of several Dickens or Hardy novels. Again, the later part of the novel where Kamala almost mushily sentimentalizes on her victimization is simply nerve-racking. At times, Noukadubi  seems to read more like a Sarat Chandra novel, than a Tagore novel (However, I am not suggesting that Sarat Chandra’s novels are bad; what I’m trying to imply is that Tagore seems to play to the gallery in a manner akin to Sarat Chandra’s in Noukadubi; and this unsettles the reader, for she opens a Tagore text with a different kind of expectation altogether) Quite bewildered by his choice of text, I was rather curious to see Rituparno Ghosh’s treatment of a story, which originally begins with an interesting twist, but dwindles into dullness. Boatwrecks are famed to wrought havoc, as had been already established by Daniel Defoe's prose romance Robinson Crusoe, and therefore, an fascinating point to begin a narrative. That element of thrill was also there on the first pages of the Tagore novel as well; but, lost wind as the story unfolded. So, I was rather interested to see whether the Rituparno film can sustain the interest! 

I do not really believe that you need to read a novel before going for its cinematic adaptation. But in case of Rituaparno Ghosh’s Noukadubi, I would personally suggest that if you have not read the novel, it would be difficult for you to appreciate the spectacular departures the director makes from the original story. Re-narrating a novel frame by frame on celluloid is not desirable at all; Ghosh steers clear of that brilliantly and very interestingly renders one of Rabindranath’s not-so-good-novels rather watchable. 

What I could not stop marvelling at is the little play on authorship that Rituparno introduces. From the very beginning of the film, Rabindranath enters the narrative as a character whom Hemnalini (Raima Sen) adores, and when asked by Annada, her father (Dhritiman Chatterjee) whether she has developed amorous interest in someone, she says that her obvious choice is the poet. Next, Ramesh (Jishu Sengupta) while shifting to his new house and setting it up, admits that Rabindranath has become an indispensable part of his reality and demands a special corner in his house. I guess he even uses the word bojha (or burden) that the cultural phenomenon called Rabindarnath Thakur has become in the educated middle class Bengali household. The picture of the poet is used quite frequently; particularly the positioning of the picture in the scene where Nalikakshya (Prasenjit Chatterjee) sings Tori amar hothath dubey jai (My canoe sinks all of a sudden) is rather suggestive. The camera moves from Nalikakshya seated on one side of the room to a tearful Hemnalini sitting on the other side. The picture sits royally in-between the two, almost, overseeing, as it were, the proceedings. While he is the primary inspiration behind the story we see on celluloid, the director good-humouredly calls into question the very sanctity of his authorship by moulding the existing text to serve his cinematic purposes, right under his nose, as it were. This in turn deconstructs the whole notion of author-as-God, and also perhaps rescues Rabindranath from the unquestionable divine status many have attributed to the poet. Ironically, the picture is shown to be ritualistically worshipped. The introduction of this picture leaves you wondering endlessly what happens when the author himself finds access into his own fictional world. Then again, whose fictional world is this? Rituparno’s or Rabindranath’s? In fact, when the film ends, you realize the significance of the song Khelghar bandhte legechhi (I have begun building a doll’s house brick by brick) with which the film begins. The word khela translates into ‘play’; the suggestion is the director too is all set to begin a ‘play’ (please note play may mean both ‘game’ and ‘drama’) with a Tagore text; he is constructing a little drama, in the spirit of ‘play’, where he enters into a dialogue with the original author of Noukadubi. In this sense Khelaghar bandhte legechhi almost functions as a preface to the film.

The Bhawal-Sanyasi case forms the subtext of the film and quite understandably so; Shakuntala too is an important inter-text. The story of the wife’s predicament when she finds that her husband has completely lost all memories of her acts as an elaborate dramatic irony in Kamala’s (Riya Sen) narrative. In one occasion there is a delightful reference to Tennyson as well. In the novel both Ramesh and Akshaye gift the same hard-bound copy of Tennyson to Hemnalini. The suggestion could be that Tennyson, the pioneer of mainstream Victorianism, was an important vehicle of cultural colonization in colonial Bengal. One may recall in ‘The Lady of Shallot’, there appears a couple walking hand-in-hand in the moonlit night, when Tennyson almost with a sense of urgency quickly adds that they are lately married. Love or sex outside wedlock was regarded sacrilegious by the Victorian moral police. Therefore, Tennyson as a gift resonates with political implications. Ironically, however, the very inviolability of the institution of marriage is sufficiently challenged by the novel (and the film).

The use of Rabindrasangeet is extremely intelligent and the songs selected meaningfully contribute to the plot. Khelaghar bandhte legechhi amar moner bhitore (In the core of my heart, I have begun building a doll’s house brick by brick) with which the film begins acts a dramatic irony introducing Hemnalini’s vulnerability in love. The heart-rending Tori amar hothat dubey jaye literally takes on the title, while adequately expressing the misgivings of estrangement. Tomar ashimey (In the eternity that you are) comes at the right moment when a lovelorn Hemnalini fights with herself to come to terms with her reality. And all ends well with Anandalok e mangalaloke birajo satya sundar!

I feel that Noukadubi demands to be appreciated not only on the level of the narrative, but in terms of its execution. Since I was sceptical of the novel per se, the film came to me a pleasant surprise. And yes, once again, Rituparno Ghosh has proved he can really make his actors act: Raima is believable, and Jishu is sublte; but Prasenjit disappoints to a certain extent. He fails to bring into his performance the gravity Nalinakshya’s character demands. The astonishing part is that Riya Sen has actually acted; but, I feel, the lion’s share of the praise which Riya would command, should go to Monali Thakur whose voice-over has miraculously accentuated her performance.

An enjoyable film, Noukadubi could have gained a little more complexity had Ghosh shown a developing physical relationship between Kamala and Ramesh before the latter comes to discover Kamala’s real identity. The novel had given clear indications of that. But for some unknown reason Rituparno has refrained from it. But that does not take away from the film its brilliance.

Memories in March: Bonding and Beyond

Aar Ekti Premer Golpo has paved the path for the issue of alternative sexuality find access to the arena of popular Bengali cinema. But Bengali cinema is yet to come of age when in comes to representing alternative sexuality; for, it’s high time that queerness was rescued from being an issue and represented as ‘normal’. Whether it’s Aar Ekti Premer Golpo or the present film Memories in March (Dir: Sanjay Nag), the endeavour to ‘normalize’ queerness is more than honest; but the very fact that it’s an ‘issue’ is something none of these films have been able to transcend. Perhaps, because Bengali cinema is still at a very immature stage of representing queerness, that it tends to get preachy documentary-style whenever queerness is discussed. Therefore when a disconcerted Mrs. Mishra (Deepti Naval) innocently asks Ornab (Rituparno Ghosh) that whether her negligence or her inability to spend quality time with her son Siddharth has anything to do with the ‘abnormality’ in him, Ornab is infuriated and tells her to have herself examined by a psychiatrist. Bengali cinema is still at a stage when a queer relationship cannot be represented like any other heterosexual relationship without the weighty baggage of justification. Many would argue the very concept of being queer is rather ‘new’ to India; in fact, the heteronormative/queer binary has entered the popular consciousness of the country after the economic liberalization in the early 90s. Therefore, it is impossible not to address the question of associating abnormality with queerness even at this stage. But I believe that queer cinema comes of age only when it represents same-sex relationships as natural, and not as something deviant which demands to be integrated into the mainstream. Memories in March has failed to achieve that maturity.

Coming to the film proper: Memories in March is not a merely a film about a gay relationship; it is something more than that. In fact, like many other Rituparno Ghosh films, it is about human bonding, about the genesis of new relationships between strangers despite apparent differences. However, things seem to happen too fast. Mrs. Mishra arrives in Kolkata to collect the ashes of her deceased son when she shockingly discovers that he was gay. She learns from Shahana (Raima Sen) that he was in a relationship with his boss Ornab, whom she accuses of having seduced her son. Ornab loses his cool and enters into a verbal tirade with Mrs. Mishra which ends in an emotional calamity. However, Mrs. Mishra gradually comes to terms with her son’s being gay and accepts Ornab and the fact of his being an integral part of her son’s life.

What strikes us as unnatural is how amazingly composed the characters are! Be it Ornab, be it Shahana, or be it the bereaved mother herself − all of them a remarkably controlled. Although Ornab breaks into tears sitting in the car at the place of the accident, the way he dresses up the very next day in office does not carry any mark of what he is going through. Shahana claims to be in love with Siddharth; but she too is exceptionally unperturbed. Mrs. Mishra too seems to rise above the trauma much too soon. Perhaps none of the characters believe in public display of private emotions. But somehow Siddharth’s sudden death does not seem to be a harrowing affair. There’s too much of an economy of emotions which at times appears incredible. However, I must admit that the songs penned by Rituparno Ghosh with their melancholy notes compensate for the emotions that seem to be lacking.

The film may appear a bit stifling for most of it happens in a poorly-lit apartment; perhaps the apartment contributes to the dark mood of the film, but somehow it appears a tad claustrophobic. Even the rains which come in the end only slant into the balcony of the flat drenching the clay ash-container. Besides that, too many television-style close-ups grate on the nerves at times; there’s barely a long shot in the entire film. Sometimes it seems that you are watching a telefilm.

Veteran actor Deepti Naval is simply outstanding; she is never over-the-top. Although remarkably composed, her eyes speak volumes. She does not act; she behaves and that too with an amazing dignity that suits her personality to a T. Rituparno Ghosh was comparatively better in Aar Ekti Premer Golpo; however, he tries his best to deliver. But his English is slightly strained. Raima Sen is extremely unimpressive as Shahana, although expectations were higher this time.

Memories in March is nonetheless sensible and demands a one-time watch at least. And let me tell you it does not appear to be a Rituparno Ghosh film as many had anticipated it would. Although the look-and-feel is reminiscent of many a Ghosh flick, none can deny that it has been made by someone else. It’s a Sanjay Nag film, after all. Despite Ghosh’s script, it certainly lacks the fine emotional touch that is the hallmark of an out-and-out Ghosh film.

N.B: I have one fear though: Rituparno Ghosh should not become the face of gayness per se. All gay people are not like Rituparno Ghosh. Perhaps this could have been better established had the film shown Siddharth over whom girls too used to drool and with whom Shahana fell in love, head-over-heels. That too would have contributed to breaking the stereotype even more!

'Aar Ekti Premer Golpo': Shall we say ‘a good start’?

Rituparno Ghosh’s Roop asks Indraneil Sengupta’s Basu if they are invited to appear at the Habitat together at the same time when his pregnant wife Rani (Churni Ganguly) wishes to go out for biriyani at Karim’s, who is he going to choose. Basu does not have an answer; in fact, he cannot have. For, both Roop and Rani are equally important and indispensable to him. Kaushik Ganguly captures with subtlety the tragedy of the bisexual man who oscillates and exhausts himself in maintaining the balancing act between his wife and boyfriend. While the whole world has labeled Aar Ekti Premer Golpo as the first Bengali ‘gay’ feature film, and in its review seems to tilt more towards delineating the vulnerability of the films two gay characters − Roop, the film director and Chapal Bhaduri, the veteran folk theatre actor, the vulnerability of Basu, the bisexual cinematographer is almost elided, as if he did not exist. What is remarkable is that the film does not stereotype Roop’s lover as exploitative or manipulative, but sensitively handles his character which, commendably enough, does not verge on the perverse. Basu’s tragedy is that he is caught between two relationships, one, socially approved, the other not; but the emotional quotient involved in both is equal. The last scene where Roop and Basu kiss and cry before they separate the reality of this in-between-ness and the very impossibility of finding a remedy to it becomes all the more conspicuous; and perhaps, it is here the film scores the most, notwithstanding its sensitive handling of the homosexual men as well.

So, let’s not call Aar Ekti Premer Golpo, a gay love story; let’s be a little more term-sensitive, and call it, a queer love story. However, the irony is, while the title of the film makes a laudable endeavour to dispense of with the sexual identity of its protagonists (underscored by the words aar ekti translated as ‘just another’), terms such as ‘gay’, ‘bisexual’, or ‘queer’ cannot be done away with in interpreting the film. At one point Roop is questioned by a media-person whether the focus of his film is on Chapal Bhaduri’s sexual life; he annoyingly retorts that had he been making a film on Amitabh Bachchan, would he have asked him the same question. Do we refer to say, You’ve Got Mail or say Saptapadi as a heterosexual or straight love story? We don’t. But in case of a film dealing with same-sex relationships say, Brokeback Mountain, some branding such as ‘gay’, ‘lesbian’ or ‘bisexual’ is found almost indispensable. Can we stop being queer or feminist, and just be humanist? Perhaps labeling is indeed necessary to advance an identity politics in a world which is essentially sympathetic only to heteronormativity. The debate may continue endlessly, as to whether labeling of alternative sexual inclinations is necessary or not, but I am going to leave it to that, and turn on Aar Ekti Premer Golpo as of now.

Roop, the self-proclaimed liberated gay film director from Delhi who effortlessly cross-dresses and is very assertive about it, is, in a way, the alter-ego of Chapal Rani, the yesteryear folk-theatre actor of Bengal, who impersonated female characters on stage. At one point in the film, Momo (Raima Sen) tells Basu that Roop is using the story of Chapal Rani’s life as a peg to hang his own story. Such an observation, though refuted by Basu, is, I feel, true; for, Chapal Bhaduri has all of a sudden drawn much attention from filmmakers and cultural commentators in the wake of LGBTQ studies becoming ‘fashionable’ in India. He has, almost overnight, graduated into an object of study, owing to his sexual fluidity. Then again, his story is also needed to be told, and yes, the focus is severely upon his sexual life. No matter how vehemently Roop denies (in a penchant to be politically correct) that he would not highlight the actor’s sexuality, he ends up, childishly demanding Chapal Rani to be honest with his sexual life. The ambivalence in Roop becomes most palpable if one juxtaposes two scenes:

(1) At the very beginning of the film, Roop compassionately tells Chapal to stop telling his tale if he finds it very painful.

(2) In the end, Roop flares up with anger when Chapal refuses to expose some very private details of his life.

The undercurrent of exploitation is there, no matter, how much Roop and Chapal Bhaduri connect with each other. Or shall we say, queer people do hunt out stories (and it is necessary) that reflect their own lives in order to empower the rebellion against heteronormativity?

What is interesting is that, though Roop may appear as Chapal’s alter ego in the film (an observation that is strengthened by the film-with-the-film), both are different. While Chapal feels like a woman trapped within a man’s body, Roop celebrates his sexual fluidity. Both are gay, but not in the same way. Besides, locating the characters in history is also very important. The reality of having alternative sexual inclinations is not same for an English-educated, financially liberated, urban film director of the new millennium and a closeted, uneducated, economically handicapped folk-theatre actor of rural Bengal. Momo is right when she says that although Roop doesn’t admit to himself, he is as closeted as Chapal deep within. But superficially at least, Roop is considerably liberated, although he, like Chapal, remains lonely till the end.

Some of my friends were skeptical that the film might end up leaving the wrong message that gay people are essentially effeminate and are always victimized. The suggestive gayness in Jisshu Sengupta’s Uday who gradually falls in love with Roop perhaps saves the film from reasserting the stereotype. Many queer activists might find ridiculous how a young Chapal is always inclined to emulate heterosexual marital bonds in his relationship with his lovers. He cooks, washes clothes, looks after the house and the kids, and acts passive in bed. But it should be borne in mind Chapal could not have been otherwise, given his spatio-temporal location, and his lack of ‘community’.

Rituparno Ghosh’s acting debut is just about okay; someone younger could have been better, perhaps. Indraneil Sengupta is as usual mind-blowing, especially in the film-with-the-film. Jisshu Sengupta with a characteristic nonchalance would definitely take the cake. Raima Sen with her sheer effortlessness is gradually emerging as a good actor. Churni is fantastic as paraplegic in the film-with-the-film.

Aar Ekti Premer Golpo is definitely a good start; though not iconoclastic in the true sense of the term, it does open up new avenues for future directors to experiment on the same lines.

PS: The scene where Chapal and the paraplegic Gopa dance to Pran bhoriye trisha bhoriye would stay with you forever.

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.