While teaching film appreciation at Mumbai University, I was introduced to a marvellous Iranian film called Leila by our visiting faculty, Mr. Ajit Duara. Directed by Dariush Mehrjui, it’s one of the most ‘modern’ films I’ve seen, not just for its thinly veiled critique of a traditional society that embraces the latest technological developments from the West, but shuns liberal thought, stifles individuals and drives a wedge into the healthiest of relationships; it also makes for an interesting study in creating a masterful cinematic work, within the limits of a restrictive environment. This is a unique facet of Iranian art-house cinema in general, apart from economy of expression, dogged unsentimentality and awe-inspiring acting.
A girl who grows up too soon, a mother who doesn’t know how to balance her own needs with that of her daughter’s. A woman in search of her true identity. An actress whose reel life often spills over into her real self, creating tempestuous situations she can barely cope with. Shyam Benegal’s Bhumika, based on the book Sangtye Aika, by Marathi actress Hansa Wadkar, traces these dilemma’s in the life of the poor village girl Usha as she rises to stardom and drifts from one traumatic relationship to the next, in her constant quest for fulfillment.
Smita Patil was just 22 when she essayed this role of a lifetime. It fetched her a National Award and tremendous critical acclaim.
The Women of Bhumika: Please wait for the slideshow to load, and navigate using the 'next' and 'previous' links.
SLIDESHOW TEXT BY VIKRAM PHUKAN. These images are screengrabs from the official release DVD. No copyright infringement intended.
Smita Patil’s closest friend Jhelum Paranjape recalls how when the actress immersed herself in a role, she often ‘became’ the character. Given Smita’s affinity towards women’s issues and concern for their disadvantaged status in contemporary society, the part of Sulabha Mahajan in Jabbar Patel’s Umbartha (The Threshold) was especially close to her heart. More so, because the character of the intense and fiery social worker adapted to screen by noted playwright Vijay Tendulkar from Shanta Nisal’s Marathi novel Beghar (Homeless), seemed so much like her mother, Vidya Patil, a dedicated social worker. While playing Sulabha, Smita married her mother’s poise (evident in her precise body language), with her own passion and vulnerability. It may not have fetched her the National Awards Bhumika and Chakra did, but won enough acclaim to warrant a special retrospective of her films in France and earned her recognition as a feminist icon.
At one level, I found Pedro Almodovar's Talk To Her extremely offensive. Picture this. A woman is lying on a hospital bed and the camera lovingly, lyrically, moves over her body, focussing more than once on her swelling breasts. A male nurse tenderly caresses her thigh, applies cream on her abdomen (with breasts in view again), manicures her nails and talks to her ceaselessly. The woman's eyes are closed. She cannot talk back or respond to his obviously erotic handling of her body. She is in a coma, and has been thus for four years—through all of which, presumably, the said nurse has been deriving pleasure from her body. That he is in love with her, and states, "these four years have been the richest of my life", or for that matter, the fact that he is apparently a disturbed individual doesn't take away from the exploitative premise of the plot.
Rituparno Ghosh's Dahan (Crossfire), is as scathing a critique of middle-class society and its hypocrisy as anything one has seen on the Indian screen. Using subtle melodrama—unlike Rajkumar Santoshi's Damini (1992) which is its thematic predecessor—he takes sharp stabs at the edifice of respectability that an educated but self-serving and cowardly mass wears with misplaced pride and self-righteousness.
It is also a distinctly feminist text, for in the order of this world women's identity is strictly determined in relation to the men in their lives, their families and society at large, but never as individuals with any right to self-determination.
Aparna Sen's Paromitar Ek Din (House of Memories in English) explores female bonding between two formidable women trapped in a rigid patriarchal family. While the edifice of this oppressive system is crumbling as gradually (but surely) as the old mansion the family occupies in North Kolkata, these two women must pay a heavy price for their individuality in the meantime.
The film opens with a framed photograph of Sanaka (Aparna Sen) and then on to a bright courtyard where her death rituals are being performed. Against the backdrop of a priest chanting mantras, we see Paromita (Rituparna Sengupta) sitting quietly in a corner observing the scene playing out before her, but mostly lost in her own memories of the deceased. The narrative, which travels freely in time taking the shape of Paromita's reminiscences is framed entirely from her point of view, beginning with her entry into the Sanyal house on her wedding day as Sanaka's younger daughter-in-law.
The entire film Paromitar Ek Din is now available on Youtube on the Rajshri Channel.
That’s the exact duration of time that Gabriela (Laura Vasiliu) has been pregnant when we stumble into her life in a shabby dorm in some Romanian town firmly in the iron grip of Nicolai Ceausescu’s oppressive rule. Abortion is illegal, while a fifth month termination invites an even harsher sentence. Everything from cigarettes to mint to cosmetics must be procured on the black market—even necessities like cooking gas, sugar and meat are heavily rationed. It’s impossible to go anywhere without an ID, the streets are uniformly bleak by day and night, people in any position of privilege exploit their powers and the state impinges on individual lives in a multitude of ways.
Alejandro González Iñárritu’s Babel continues in the vein of his earlier works, Amores Perros and 21 Grams, charting the fatalistic collision of several lives. This time though, he extends his canvas to encompass three continents and a multi-lingual ensemble cast ranging from Brad Pitt and Cate Blanchett to Japanese star Koji Yakusho, Mexican hunk Gael Garcia Bernal and a host of unknown, but exceptionally talented actors.
Shot entirely in black and white, Rituparno Ghosh’s Dosar (The Companion) opens with Kaushik Chatterjee (Prasenjit) and his colleague and lover Mita Roy checking out of their weekend retreat in a riverside resort. On their way back to Kolkata they meet with an accident. She dies on the spot while he is critically injured.
Cut to a dingy hospital corridor where Kaushik’s wife Kaberi (Konkona Sen Sharma, brilliant) is trying to find the right expression to mask her anguish and display her indignation over her husband’s infidelity. She even tries (a little comically) hiding behind dark glasses and refuses to sign the hospital form as a mark of protest. Her friends from the theatre troupe where she works, Bobby and Brinda, are by her side and try to persuade her to be reasonable.
Watching an entire feature film about a dying man's testimony to his son might seem particularly tepid. But not if the story is that of celebrated Italian journalist Tiziano Terzani, who by all records, was an exceptional man. He experienced and participated in all of the major events of his lifetime -- from the student revolution in Paris in 1968 to Vietnam, Cambodia, China and the fall of the Soviet Union -- and moved from being an ideological communist to embracing Gandhian principles and finally, Asian spirituality and meditation. Terzani is played with characteristic finesse by Bruno Ganz, an actor who recreates his sagely demeanour (white beard, homespun clothes and all) and then compliments it with wit and vulnerability.
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