I wonder if Satyajit Ray shared that sentiment. His ‘Pather Panchali’ embodies
numerous neo-realist aspects, none more deeply felt than the chain of events which take
place in the film, each steeped more heavily in everyday observation of life than the last.
As I poked a bit harder with my thinking stick, however, I could see just how delicate and
complex were the systems of life which Ray was presenting.
     There is an amazing chain of cause and effect leaning on the opening scenes. For
instance, Durga obviously has a closer relationship with her Auntie than the rest of the
family does (there are shades of the father’s affections towards her – but clearly, Durga
holds the favor which allows her to stay present in their home). Ray wondrously creates a
plight in which Durga inadvertently becomes responsible for Auntie’s imminent removal
from the household. The situation goes like this : Durga steals from an orchard once
owned by the family. Egged on by Auntie, who enjoys the fruit Durga brings almost as
much as Durga enjoys giving it to her, leads to Mother being shamed by the women she
overhears critiquing her parental control and technique. Mother sees Auntie encouraging
Durga’s theft (which is merely a statement of injustice as the orchard was repossessed to
pay a debt) and asks Durga to return the fruit. While she is gone, Mother kicks Auntie
out. The way Ray paints Durga as so unaffected by the poverty her family is experiencing
runs a gamut, shifting plates of a gargantuan theme wherein Durga’s actions (keeping in
mind that she is a subservient woman in 1950’s India) are so outwardly autonomous, the
contradiction breeds an original and like able character.
     Also, he seems to have a knack for complacent parallels that almost draw
themselves. For example, it is hard not to call to mind the scene where Auntie is kicked
out when we see the lifeless Auntie lying in the forest, dead of what looks to be exposure.
It isn’t just the cause and effect that draws these counterparts together (mother kicks
Auntie out, she has no place to go and she dies), but a higher, almost image-centered
relay of information. It is as if the scenes are the same in some twin universe. Auntie is
kicked out by life, only to be found by the children in one life. She is kicked out of the
house, only to be found by death, in the other. They connect because the result is the
same – but on the surface we only see an abstract, almost déjà vu-ish similarity. It is as if
they were written at the same time, in the same mindset - and bear the same tone.
     Though not immediate, the recognition that everything onscreen is engineered to
be vibrantly entertaining and culturally prideful appears only to be occurring with the
magnitude of a soft hum. Ray is a master at diverting our gaze into a series of intellectual
observations, each buried deeper than the last. He leaves a neo-realist tone on the surface
and plays with the complexities of characters’ roles underneath. He makes the impressive
cinematic palette he is painting upon look like nothing at all – this is high art that does
not call attention to itself.
     Then there is the scene where Apu and Durga witness the locomotive splitting the
serenity of the Indian landscape in two, black smoke billowing into the calm, cloudy air.
For people who are so poor they are almost “living in the forest” (as Mother complains),
the sight of telephone poles and indeed, the train, is jarring and disturbing. The use of
chiaroscuro is bolder in this sequence than in any other scene in the film (the dark grey of
the train and the heavy black of the engine against the light grey of the reeds and the
near-white, soft cloud sky. The image of another world, a mystifying image that seems to
call on themes of ambition (anyone who is poor would certainly want to be part of any
world that would be immense in beauty, new or intriguing), is harnessed to be a
multi-purpose symbol in both Apu and Durga’s lives.
     First and foremost, it is an image registering the exact moment of childhood
memory. Remember the first time you saw a train, or a plane – or the skeleton of a
dinosaur, for that matter? The disturbing, complex and gigantic nature is one of those
things we take with us. Ray has no trouble expressing this idea.
     The train is also a warning. Moments later, another disturbance in the tranquility
of these children’s universe will come : their discovery of Auntie’s corpse. It also works
as a warning of how poverty and Indian society dictate how quickly children are made to
mature (even children who seem relatively unaffected by their present financial
situation). Death, in this case, is witnessed firsthand, and like the train, it seems strange
and evocative as envisioned by Ray – and the children.
     Next, he orchestrates the train scene in such a way that it emerges the strongest
moment of bonding between brother and sister (Apu and Durga). They clearly experience
the same awe and wonder together - and recognize this association. Just as we thought of
Auntie being kicked out when she is found dead, we think of this relationship defining
moment when Durga dies (also of an offshoot of exposure). It just seems that the bond is
important enough that the death of a sibling will effect Apu – and therefore two things
occur: Apu becomes the center of attention by default, which is of the most interest to
we, the audience – as this is a trilogy. And Apu becomes a stronger being in our eyes in
the quiet, almost non-existent way he handles his sister’s death.
     As the tip of an iceberg I’ve not yet seen - ‘Pather Panchali’ is certainly enough of
an accomplishment to elicit a need to see the other two films. On the other hand, as a
singular entity, a strange thing occurs when you view this film against its neorealist roots:
by continuing the saga, it openly defies the rule that neorealist films shouldn’t have a
definitive ending. In fact, ‘Pather Panchali’ could almost have a “to be continued...” title
over the final shot.

Dil Se (From my Heart)
Mani Rathnam, 1998, 163 minutes.
Hindi with English Subtitles

     Before I get into any kind of deconstruction, analysis or observation – allow me a
paragraph to insist that watching these two films were the best choices in a great class
populated with appropriate examples of a formula (i.e. – neorealism). Not only do these
seemingly straightforward examples of Brechtian theater defy the very nature of film as
we know it (particularly me, one of the most elitist filmgoers I know), but they brought a
light of hope to a genre I abhor; a genre I have struggled to find replacement words to
insert, as “melodrama” and “soap opera” can only be used so many times. My exact
statement when I returned home and my wife asked me how ‘Bombay’ was: “If ever
there were a place for melodrama on this earth, it is in this film (and films like it)”.
Actually, the best part of these films are the songs – sequences that have no bearing on
any sort of logic whatsoever, but demonstrate a unique and intimate knowledge of how
people intake cinema for reasons of entertainment, diversion and release. The first song,
the one that took place on a train (in ‘Dil Se’) was one of the most inspired sequences
I’ve seen in film to date (and one that made me sure Lars Von Trier had seen several
Hindi films before conceiving ‘Dancer in the Dark’, particularly the musical sequence
that takes place in and around a moving train). This song made we want to leap out of my
seat, join in and look like a wonderfully animated fool. Not only does Mani Rathnam
realize and comprehend the rhythm of images quite clearly – he understands the power of
flamboyance and the meaninglessness of cinematic rules (the 180’ rule goes right out the
window: “Good Riddance!”). Finally, as these films take a direct approach at burrowing
into our frontal lobes (I didn’t even consider snoozing as these, the longest films we’ve
seen this year), they have a power all their own, a power I couldn’t begin to apply in
American cinema. To put it another way, between the popular cinema of America – the
studio films made for entertainment – and the Hindi films, also made for entertainment –
the differences are indecipherable. Yes, these are the first two Hindi films I’ve seen, but
as far as one has become a burnt out source of rehash (the American films); the other
seems to be pulsating with vibrant, exciting energy. These films were so dynamic and
ready to cater to the needs of the audience, I wondered if they were thrust into some
strange, rigorous version of our “test audience” system; one that works.
     ‘Bombay’ was the more effective of the two films. While both films are
repetitive, Bombay’s wickedly simplistic portrayal of political conflict as black and white
and nothing more made the repetition become strongly hypnotic. The explosions, the
fights and the panic fueled a sort of tragic reserve that encircled the characters. Rathnam
ends ‘Bombay’ wisely, keeping his main characters alive and making their misfortune a
strong end to the means, a ploy to build suspense rather than to include a happy ending.
This, of course, is entirely reversed in ‘Dil Se’, which also has a wonderful ending – one
that is decidedly fearless, though solitary – and takes a note to distance itself from being
happy so much as it is twisted and, in a weird way, satisfying. It is also so non-American
in its substance alone. If it didn’t follow a second half overstuffed with filler, repetition
and really, really dry plot exposition – the ending would be something else. As it is,
making the attractive, mysterious woman into a terrorist was a bad call if Rathnam
wanted his film to run smoothly. Actually, it’s a bad idea anyway. Nobody believed her
as a terrorist. Not for a second. And perhaps if the momentum were there, the
implausibility and silliness of this beautiful woman squeezing into a military subversive
squad suit would be somewhat ironic (or at least fun). As it is, we only get one great
laugh at the film’s expense (besides the ending) – that the tone is completely summed up
by this line of dialogue: “Don’t you feel our love is more important that terrorism?”
Tough question.
     The fantasy element of both films is what pleases us most. While ‘Bombay’ has
problems keeping its tone straight (what is the heck is it to be: a doomed family romance,
a screwball comedy, a tense political thriller?), ‘Dil Se’ sets a clear, if uninteresting tone.
I liked how much time ‘Bombay’ was content to spend in fantasyland. The songs were
more overblown, less popish than in ‘Dil Se’ (that’s not a bad thing, being popish, mind
you). Reminds me of the descriptor used to describe the studio-hacked bastard version of
‘Brazil’ – “The Love Conquers All Version”. That’s what ‘Bombay’ said to me. The song
that takes place at the old fort, where he is musing about how “his life and death are now
in [her] hands” – that’s melodrama. When I wince, embarrassed for the character, it’s a
kind, almost guilty pleasure of a wince. These songs inspire that kind of fantastic joy in
me. And whether the families are a-feudin’ or what have you, “Love Conquers All”.
Ah.
    Following in this overblown manner – the thing that really makes these films
what they are – I enjoyed the strange, backward conviction of both of the main
characters’ parents in ‘Bombay’. Always ready to “hack to pieces” anyone who did them
wrong. What Rathnam knows, though, is that the audience may grit their teeth and say
“Oooo!” when these parental units threaten bodily harm to everyone around them, but it
is just that much more exciting to watch the satisfying return to center that takes place in
‘Bombay’s second act, when the fathers accept their son and daughter once again. It
remedied the thoughts I was having that perhaps the strictness and religious suppression
of emotion were responsible for the exaggerated nature of these films and that perhaps it
was my job to delineate between natural human forces and cultural forces. Just as
Rathnam made politics entertaining by removing them from being believable in any
personal way – only universal forms – so he manages the same thing with the fathers.
There’s no possibility that we could believe that they turned remorseful after viewing
their strong display of will. By giving the audience a joyous reconciliation, he creates
entertainment and bliss. Later, he kills them off. Rathnam, chuckling, plays us like a
violin. He can make us happy, he can make us sad. He has the means to do it. The means
are melodrama. The reason I believe Indian films are the only place melodrama is of any
use is because they harness it and make it work for them. Very few Hollywood films I’ve
seen can make melodramatic films that are also of high quality and craftsmanship.
     Though I liked ‘Bombay’ better, the first half of ‘Dil Se’ blew anything in
‘Bombay’ out of the water. All the way up to the intermission, ‘Dil Se’ balances a tone of
lovelorn musical fantasy that deservingly reflects light, fluffy – almost straight-faced
romantic comedy. Even viewed against ‘Bombay’, it is rewarding. The first sequence at
the train station is impeccably timed – and genuinely funny. As previously stated, the first
song is just glorious. In ‘Dil Se’, when our male lead speaks to the lead actress, she is
quiet – but she talks to him. (In ‘Bombay’, the female lead ignores the male lead near for
what seems like an eternity). The scenes in the first half of ‘Dil Se’ are all compelling
beyond belief. It still amazes me the way the standard is reversed. In Hindi films,
romance seems easy to nail (or at least Mani Rathnam makes it seem easy to nail). In
American films, as I’ve said often, romantic comedy is one of the hardest things to do
well. ‘Dil Se’ also defies some of the ideals ‘Bombay’ held onto (with Indian’s strict
censorship laws). There is kissing, implied rape, bawdy discussion, all sorts of graphic
violence.
     These films are excessive – in a good way. I was amazed at the euphoric state
they left me in. Yes, it’s relative since I’ve seen but two of these films; but by their very
nature, they seem more interested in the type of cinema meant to entertain and entertain
only. Films like ‘Fire’ and ‘Pather Panchali’, Indian films of artistic and intellectual merit
– but not fluffy musicals – when viewed against something like ‘Dil Se’, seem strange
and unfamiliar. The sad thing in American cinema is the way independent and studio
films begin to converge after awhile and mirror each other. In the examples of India films
we’ve seen, that just isn’t the case. Something about that is extremely refreshing, which
is why I don’t feel like I’m being too hasty in drawing such mammoth conclusions.
American studio films often make me want to rent foreign films. These films made me
want to see more Indian films.