A Lyrical Realism: Girish Kasaravalli on the Enduring Legacy of Satyajit Ray

It’s a great honour to have with us Girish Kasaravalli, one of the legends of post-Ray Indian cinema. I remember my first encounter with him through his film Ghatashraddha (1977) when I was in my second year of MA in Calcutta University. It was a revelation. It was so ruthlessly honest about the ground reality and yet artistically so different from his contemporaries. We shall basically be interested in knowing his views about the films of Satyajit Ray.

Let me begin by citing a letter by Rabindranath Tagore, written on November 26, 1929, to thespian Sisir Bhaduri’s brother Murari Bhaduri: “I think the new art of cinema is yet to grow. The quest for originality is the objective of art, and every artist seeks the freedom of self-expression. Otherwise, its dignity is compromised. Till now, the slavery of cinema to literature has made it undignified; no artist has been able to liberate it from this slavery by his own talent.”

This finally happened when Ray arrived on the scene of Indian cinema. Eric Rhode wrote in the chapter “Internationalism” in his monumental book A History of the Cinema from Its Origin to 1970 that a revitalised Swedish film industry led by Bergman, the emergence of Satyajit Ray as a major director, and the recognition of the Japanese (he meant Kurosawa, Mizoguchi, and Ozu), who “enlarged the perception of cinema” in the 1950s.

Although influenced by Vittorio De Sica’s neo-realism, one thing was clear: Ray’s narrative was different. There was an inner lyricism ‘à la Renoir’ and an incredible sense of structure. Even if it looked realistic on the surface, it operated on various levels and his images were unconventionally creative and cinematic. For the legendary photographer Henri Cartier-Bresson, Ray’s films “had an upsetting beauty”.

There was also a nuanced characterisation, a flurry of echoes and cross-references, a structural harmony reminiscent of Mozart, and impeccable editing. (Ghatak called him the finest editor in the country). Also, it almost seemed like actors such as Subir Banerjee, Soumitra Chattopadhyay, or Sharmila Tagore were born to play those characters in Ray’s films. Like Tapen Chatterjee was born to play the role of the singer in Goopy Gyne Bagha Byne.

André Bazin said as early as 1957 that Ray strung the cluster of images in a completely new way, and this left traces in memory. Ray did a kind of humanisation of cinematic discourse in a way that Indian cinema had not witnessed before. Before I move on to Girish, I would like to remind readers that Ray never repeated himself and stubbornly went on exploring the ways of the world, much like Girish himself.

Now, to Girish, one of the pioneers of Indian cinema (I won’t use the term “parallel cinema” but would say “real cinema”). Before you speak, let me tell you that I’ve watched all the films you’ve made over the years.

You were born in Kesalur, Thirthahalli, Shimoga, Mysore State (now Karnataka). You came from a family of freedom fighters and agriculturalists. All this matters. And then you eventually got drawn to the touring talkies and then, one day, you delved deep into the human psyche, and the camera spoke with you; the camera became so eloquent and yet so precise, which is reminiscent of Ray.

So, Girish, you were a budding pharmacist and then enrolled at FTII Pune, where you won a gold medal. What was your first exposure to Ray?

Well, I had heard about Ray even before joining the Film Institute in Pune. In Pune, we used to have screenings of two different films a day, at 5:30 pm and 9:30 pm. The film screened at 5:30 pm used to be a classic, and the one at 9:30 pm would be a contemporary film. I had heard a lot about Ray’s Pather Panchali but could not watch it yet, so I was dying to watch it. Particularly because one of my classmates, after every single screening every day, would say, “No, no! Pather Panchali is far, far superior to this!” He would say the same for every film. Then, finally, one day, when Pather Panchali was screened, I got completely bowled out and I realised why my classmate would call the film superior to any other films we had seen so far. It’s still my favourite Ray film. But before Pather Panchali, I had seen Pratidwandi in Hyderabad, where I had been working as a pharmacist in a company, IDPL. So, that was my first encounter with Ray.

Well, Pratidwandi was a very special film in Ray’s oeuvre… one of his most experimental, using techniques Ray never used again. But, Pather Panchali, as you said, still remains your most favourite Ray film. Why?

Well, you mentioned a few minutes ago that Ray was influenced by the neo-realists. Indeed, he was. Yet his way of seeing was quite different and unique. His was a kind of realism coupled with lyricality, a sort of lyrical humanism, if I may so call it. Ray tried to bring in a new kind of minimalistic idiom into cinema, which was quite different from all the filmmakers of the time and even today. Andrew Robinson said, “Ray’s is a kind of art that conceals art”. This is exactly what I liked most about Pather Panchali. And, Ray plays a very significant role in the history of cinema because the kind of films he started making were totally different from the other films being made at that time. In that sense, he heralded a new style, a style which can be found in Pather Panchali, where he did not use any linear narrative. This was something extraordinary at that time.

Pather Panchali is very episodic and also very polyphonic in nature, but the way Ray arranges all these sequences is unique. When Truffaut left the cinema hall, saying Pather Panchali was “full of paddy fields,” it was André Bazin who held him and told him to watch the film again, as Bazin was already moved by the unmanipulated representation of the baffling visuals. And, though Pather Panchali was wrongly compared to the films of Robert J. Flaherty, Ray’s films did not, at all, resemble Flaherty’s. Also, the whole notion of evil, which was not there in Ray’s film, baffled the larger Western audience.

This is probably because they were influenced by Western modernism.

Yes, but the film was not, at all, about evil. Ray had rather a holistic approach.

Yes, and I think that’s part of Ray’s humanism. Even the most mischievous or roguish characters in Ray are not evil but rather sad and lonely. Perhaps Ray had a sense of sympathy for all human beings, irrespective of good or evil.

Yes. You know, in literary parlance, there’s something they call the Advaitic way of representation or non-linear representation. Ray did just that. In Ray’s films, all characters are important, even the minor, the peripheral sidekicks, everyone.

Yes, even the headmaster in Aparajito or the doctor who comes in to see Durga just for a few moments in Pather Panchali all come alive. They are all painted as complete human beings, even if they appear for a few seconds.

Very often, people say Ray’s political statements are muted. But I don’t agree. I believe politics can be shown in two ways. One way is to look at quotidian life and see the resistance built within the characters. The other way is strongly ideological. You, as the director, take an ideological stance and observe and let everything happen on screen from a vantage point. Ray never does that. Instead, he looks at smaller details with which he constructs a universe. There are many such beautiful “constructs”. If you take any of these scenes away, nothing will happen to the narrative, because, as I said, like in Pather Panchali, Ray’s films are very episodic.

Episodes, if I may say so, are juxtaposed in the form of a montage. In Pather Panchali, there are basically five regular characters, and all are thinking of something positive to happen in their lives. Starting with Pisi, who, with her very poor eyesight, is threading a needle. She hasn’t given up hope. Sarbajaya, the mother, is thinking of her girl Durga getting married into a well-off family. Durga, who has no serious concern in her life yet, keeps wondering if she had two binunis (strands of hair), and then, Harihar, the priest and father, is seen giving Apu, his son, English dictation, and on its being done, Harihar praises Apu. Then the father asks his son to write the spelling of “wealth”. And then, Apu hears a train passing and asks Durga, “Didi, have you ever seen a train… let us go and see the train.” And with this, the scene ends.

What purpose does it serve? It doesn’t serve any purpose in terms of the plot, but it does serve a purpose in terms of its idea. It’s a story of a family which is hoping and striving to make their life meaningful. That’s why I called Pather Panchali “a montage of optimism”. Despite all the odds of life, Ray never makes his characters dispirited. That’s what I like most about Ray and his Pather Panchali. It’s through this optimism that Ray offers his political views. That’s why I said Ray was different from the neo-realists. And, when many say Ray’s films do not have strong political statements, I wonder, isn’t looking at life with all its complexities a political statement? However, in Ghare Baire, Ganashatru, and in the city trilogy, the political statement is even more pronounced.

 Yes, and, I think, in Sadgati too.

Yes. You see, David Robinson used the phrase “the rightness of the images”. Ray had this rightness in his films. The rightness of the images is not only about presenting real situations but also about the humanising spirit that works behind everything. As in Indian music, when the musician plays the sympathetic string juxtaposing it with the other string of the sitar, you get to hear the desired swaras made even richer because of the ambience created; Ray also juxtaposed his images to perfection.

I think the rhythms in Ray’s films and the lyrical quality of his images are very important.

Yes, very much. When Ray was asked if his craft was all about realism and humanism, he said, “There’s more than humanism in my films. Much more is the lyricism of the images instead”. So, the rhythm and the lyricism in Ray are not mere decorative elements, but they are as important as the humanism to drive home the narrative. He uses the lyricism to create the empathy he had for all his characters.

That’s right. So, it’s clear that many have missed the lyrical quality while focusing only on the details and narrative of his films. Now, another thing you said is that Ray imbibed all kinds of influences from Renoir and De Sica and Hollywood. You called Ray a “critical insider”, just like you yourself are. You also gleaned from all sorts of influences in your Ghatashraddha, or Tabarana Kathe, or Gulabi Talkies.

Well, I believe all great artists are critical insiders. While watching a film, an artist, unlike a common man, would question himself, “Am I also not a part of it?” Ray did it too. It happens to almost every artist. An artist, while witnessing someone else’s art, does not merely stand outside and pass comments, but he himself critically immerses empathetically in the work as an insider. And that’s why Ray can make even his own characters so full of life. Like when Durga steals a fruit in Pather Panchali, Sarbajaya scolds and slaps Durga for it, but in the end, we will see Sarbajaya also take a coconut without anyone seeing her. So, these keen observations that Ray makes of human life help us to understand that neither the mother nor the daughter is bad, but rather their life compels them to do the things they are doing. And yet Pather Panchali is a celebration of life. And so is Mahanagar, one of my favourites. It’s one film, I think, that one needs to study in greater detail. It’s very crucial to understand why we empathise with the character of Arati, or how Ray constructs the middle-class milieu and also his construction of mise-en-scène.

Do you think, Girish, that Ray’s mise-en-scène revolutionised the world of cinema? For example, in Mahanagar, Dada and Boudi, Subrata and Arati are busy in an intimate conversation; the young sister comes up and pulls the curtain. These details are, I think, what make Ray’s films so fantastic and stand apart. What do you think?

Yes, absolutely. I think that’s why Pauline Kael, while talking about Ray, says, “His films do not make an impact because of their great performance or story but because you realise you are suddenly part of it.”

Now, I would like to know how you consider the significance of the beauty of quotidian life in Ray’s films. Personally, I have always admired the same in all of your films, but what do you think of Ray in this line?

The quotidian is always very significant in Ray. Ray knew how to bring out the best of the quotidian, how to make it look the most beautiful of all and that’s exactly what he did.

I remember Stanley Kauffmann, in an article in The New York Times, wrote that “Ray is so close to his material that every detail seems meaningful”. I think this is so very true for your films, too. By the way, let me just remind our readers of the great films you made, such as Ghatashraddha, Naayi Neralu, Dweepa, and, of course, Ek Ghar in Hindi. Besides, you made great films on Ananthamurthy and Adoor Gopalakrishnan. Another thing, Girish… Ray wrote his own screenplays. Do you think that helped him to conceive things the way he wanted?

Yes. Of course. That is why stories in Ray’s or even in my films are not narrated; they rather unfold or unveil right in front of you. When nobody is telling you the story but the story itself gets unveiled before you, you no longer just watch the film but participate in it. That’s what the case is with my characters Narmada or Nagi and so on.

Another aspect you have repeatedly said about Ray is of his universal vision.

Yes, Ray had the ability to lift a story from a regional socio-political milieu to a universal one. He never chained himself to a particular vision or idea. That’s why you can watch his films anywhere and still relate to them. He knew how to lift the local to the height of the global, universal. But I think this is a quality not specific to Ray but to all great filmmakers. That’s why you see a film by Kurosawa and you can relate to it sitting in India.

So, as I get it, you are basically pointing to Ray’s rootedness. And I think that’s a quality you and Adoor share with Ray. You and Adoor make films in Kannada and Malayalam, and yet reach out to a universe beyond. Of course, you have had the influence of other greats such as Ozu, Antonioni, and Kurosawa on you.

But the multilayered storytelling and the transition to the universal in your films remind me of Ray. And, critic Shiladitya Sen has found something very significant. As early as 1958, in a letter to Soumitra Chattopadhyay, who was playing Apu in Apur Samsar, Ray wrote, “As Apu fights with prejudices, my own feelings get into the character”.

Ray also had a similar mindset, and he was also journeying like Apu from the local to the universal. Coming to you, for example, in Tabarana Kathe, we all can identify with the central character so magically portrayed by Charuhasan. And, in the end, when the clerk hides behind the typewriter, we also hide ourselves, and this trajectory makes the character universal. We all relate to him. So, do you think, somehow, even in the subconscious domain of your mind, you have been influenced by Ray?

Well, in one of my interviews, I stated, when it comes to Indian cinema, Ray was an important influence on my craft. But there were a great number of texts in Kannada literature that influenced me. But what I admired in Ray is that he kept on transforming his idiom from the first phase of Pather Panchali. And then in the second phase, when he made Pratidwandi and Aranyer Dinratri and many other great films, his approach to cinematic idiom changed entirely.

Yes, each of his films is different from the other. Girish, you have said Aparajito is an instance of pure cinema. I’ll not ask you to define what pure cinema is but do you not think the scene of Harihar’s death is one of best scenes in the history of cinema ever?

Yes, of course. I fully agree with you.

You said Aparajito is pure cinema. I remember a similar comment by Arturo Lanocita who said, “The purity of the images corresponded to the purity of the subject. We have witnessed a kind of self-revelation of the Indian film art.”

Talking of Aparajito, I remember the monkey feeding scene in the film. It’s, again I say, purely magical. You cannot adequately explain it, but only enjoy the scene. It’s pure bliss, so full of a rhythmic ecstasy and this kind of a lyrical ecstasy is possible only in cinema.

On the other hand, as I was telling you, if you consider a film of the second phase of Ray’s career, then you’ll notice the drastic change in his approach to the idiom of cinema. In Aranyer Dinratri, Seemabaddha, or Jana Aranya, the blissful lyricism is gone, as it has been replaced by a grim montage of portrayals of lives with the least prospects and reasons to celebrate. Through the story of Somnath, lakhs of Somnath come to the fore. We are reminded of the unrest going on then, not only in Calcutta but in the entire nation and the entire world. The scene, capturing tonnes of job applications pouring in and out of the post office mailbox, speaks volumes about the grudges borne by the millions of educated youth wronged in the country.

If we closely observe this scene, then we’ll understand Ray does not use form merely as a tool to drive home the plot. In fact, Ray didn’t like the word “form”. Instead, he would call it “container”. And the “container” itself is a statement in Ray’s films. That’s why the form (I call it so for convenience) he uses in the city triptych Pratidwandi, Jana Aranya, and Seemabaddha is itself a statement. The chronicling of these three films in this order is apt because in Pratidwandi, Siddhartha, the protagonist, is highly idealistic. In the second film, Jana Aranya, Somnath, despite getting involved in some unfair business, still has his share of scruples. But Shyamalendu in Seemabaddha hardly hesitates in doing something immoral. This journey of moralistic degradation is deliberately maintained by Ray in the protagonists of his triptych just to reflect on the socio-political issues of the time. If this is not a political statement, then what is?

Don’t you think there’s a great amount of anger in Jana Aranya?

Yes. Siddharthais still very poetic, very romantic, hearing birds everywhere he goes. But, Shyamalendu is absolutely corrupted from the very beginning of Seemabaddha. And, from the middle of the film, Jana Aranya, Somnath is so full of unrealised anger.