Losing the plot

The 1950s saw the rise of the immortal quartet of filmmakers from Bengal—Satyajit Ray, Mrinal Sen, Ritwik Ghatak and Tapan Sinha—as well as the debut of Jatrik (a trio of directors), featuring the man with the Midas touch, Tarun Majumdar. But it was in the 1960s that these five directors really flowered.

In that decade and the next, significant work was being done in Bengal, so far as the mainstream was concerned. Films like Saptapadi (1961), Galpo Holeo Satti (1966), Kuheli (1971), Marjina Abdulla (1973), Jadu Bansha (1974), Amanush (1975) and Agnishwar (1975), among many others, set the box office on fire, even as innovation and philosophical probing in films like Galpo Holeo Satti, Aranyer Din Ratri (1970), Pratidwandi (1970), Titash Ekti Nadir Naam (1973), Padatik (1973), Sansar Seemantey (1975), Jukti, Takko aar Gappo (1974), Jana Aranya (1975) and Ek Din Pratidin (1979) continued in right earnest.

Sadly, the situation has changed drastically today.

The advent of Goutam Ghose, Buddhadeb Dasgupta, Utpalendu Chakrabarty, Aparna Sen, Nabyendu Chattopadhyay and Purnendu Pattrea in the late 1970s did infuse some fresh blood into the waning parallel cinema movement, but the mainstream proclivity for quick returns led to the copying of films from the south or from Bangladesh. This trend continues even today and the result is a complete stifling of creativity. At the same time, poor technical quality, inane insertion of song and dance, nonsensical dialogue and convoluted and contrived plot lines have dealt a body blow to the Bangla mainstream. The advent of Raj Chakraborty and the initial success of actors Dev, Jeet and a mature Prosenjit Chatterjee did breathe new life into a moribund industry but that, too, is a phase long gone. The myopic vision of some of our producers has contributed to this degenerative process. The ultra-conservative attitude of today’s producers is in stark contrast to the outlook of great producers like B.N. Sircar, Asit Chowdhury, R.D. Bansal, Asim Dutta and Nepal Dutta, to name just a few.

Another disturbing trend that began in the days of the left rule and is now firmly entrenched in Bangla culture is the propensity of directors and actors to endeavour to get close to the ruling dispensation. Producers, too, are quite active in currying favour with the powers that be. In my opinion, this is a deplorable proclivity as a true artist needs to be completely independent and bereft of any kind of political affiliation. Moreover, the fact that he or she rubs shoulders with the leading lights of the ruling party is a comment on his or her character, too. Ray may have had his political preferences (we all do), but he never pandered to any political mandarin. Neither did Sen or Ghatak. Yet, many of the so-called eminent directors of today do so unashamedly. This is true of many of the actors, too, many of whom have even joined one party or the other only to regret it almost immediately and join the other party!

The real loser in all this mindless tergiversation is cinema.

The 1980s and 1990s did see some meaningful cinema in the parallel circuit but these were few and far between. Aparna Sen’s directorial debut, 36 Chowringhee Lane (1981), was a sensitive exploration of a lonely Anglo-Indian lady, Violet Stoneham, who is exploited and betrayed by her own student, Nandita, and her lover, Samaresh.

In Utpalendu Chakrabarty’s Chokh (1983), the ‘eye’ is both metaphoric and palpable as the director makes a very strong political statement in a narrative that is layered and resonant.

Buddhadeb Dasgupta has always experimented with form, showing influences of both Andrei Tarkovsky and Federico Fellini in films like Tahader Katha (1992) and Phera (1988). But he also emerged as a strong, independent voice.

Goutam Ghose’s Paar (1984), selected for the competition section at the Venice Film Festival, was a Hindi film but the ambience and dialogue patterns were distinctly Bihari and Bengali.

The 1990s witnessed three films of a quasi-existential genre that have been dubbed by journalists like the extremely eloquent Saibal Chatterjee as truly avant-garde in the Indian context. Amitabh Chakraborty’s Kaal Abhirati (1990)... my own Sunya Theke Suru (1994)—which was a disjunctive narrative of an underground activist who becomes mentally challenged only to recover and find that he is submerged in questions without answers—and Malay Bhattacharya’s Kahini (1996).

The kind of experimental formalism explored by Bhattacharya and Chakraborty in the 1990s has, surprisingly, not come back; not even in the somewhat sensitive cinema of Srijit Mukherji and Kaushik Ganguly. The latter’s Nagarkirtan (2017) is a masterpiece, being an authentic dissection of the bittersweet lives of the third gender. Yet, the brilliance of this film with an elliptic editing pattern is often not seen in many of his other films. The same unevenness is perceptible in the cinema of Srijit Mukherji, although his Chotushkone (2014) is a masterly cinematic achievement blessed by outstanding cinematography from Sudip Chatterjee.

And yet, we continue to sink into a quicksand of mediocrity because we seem to be living in a perpetual present. Sensitive auteurs like Atanu Ghosh, Anik Dutta, Suman Ghosh, Suman Mukherjee and Aniruddha Roy Chowdhury are making significant contributions. Mukherjee’s Herbert (2005) is an extremely commendable endeavour as is Atanu Ghosh’s Mayurakshi (2017), and, indeed, Suman Ghosh’s Podokkhep (2006). But we are waiting for that creative masterpiece that will sweep everyone off their feet.

Meanwhile, the so-called mainstream cinema in Bengal, in direct contrast to the cinema in Kerala and, indeed, Maharashtra, continues to languish with inconsequential and infantile themes, completely oblivious of the fact that in the 1950s, 1960s and 1970s, it was commercial cinema that produced remarkable thematic explorations while being rich in wholesome entertainment and profound emotion.

Viswanathan is a national award-winning film director and dean of studies, Satyajit Ray Film and Television Institute, Kolkata.