Breezy April : Rabindranath Tagore

Breezy April

Breezy April, Vagrant April,
Rock me in your swing of music!
Thrill my branches with enchantment
Of your touch of sweet surprises.

In my idle dream by Wayside
You come startling me from slumber,
Wilful in your mood fantastic
Tease me with inconstant courting.

Breezy April, Vagrant April,
I live with my lonesome shadows.
I know all your fitful fancies
Language of your flitting footsteps.

All my secrets burst in blossoms
At your passing breath of whisper,
And my new leaves break in tumult
Of surrender of their kisses.

                        - Rabindranath Tagore

'Village Song' : The mind of an Indian Village girl - Old and Modern

Village Song 1
Full are my pitchers and far to carry,

Lone is the way and long,

Why, O why was I tempted to tarry

Lured by the boatmen’s song?

Swiftly the shadows of night are falling,

Hear, O hear, is the white crane calling,

Is it the wild owl’s cry?

There are no tender moonbeams to light me,

If in the darkness a serpent should bite me,

Or if an evil spirit should smite me,

Ram Re Ram! I shall die.

My brother will murmur, ‘Why doth she linger?’

My mother will wait and weep,

Saying, ‘O safe may the great gods bring her,

The Jamuna’s waters are deep…’

The Jamuna’s waters rush by so quickly,

The shadows of evening gather so thickly,

Like black birds in the sky…

O! if the storm breaks, what will betide me?

Safe from the lightning where shall I hide me?

Unless Thou succor my footsteps and guide me,

Ram Re Ram! I shall die.

Sarojini Naidu

Village Song 2

HONEY, child, honey, child, whither are you going?
Would you cast your jewels all to the breezes blowing?
Would you leave the mother who on golden grain has fed you?
Would you grieve the lover who is riding forth to wed you?


Mother mine, to the wild forest I am going,
Where upon the champa boughs the champa buds are blowing;
To the köil-haunted river-isles where lotus lilies glisten,
The voices of the fairy folk are calling me: O listen!


Honey, child, honey, child, the world is full of pleasure,
Of bridal-songs and cradle-songs and sandal-scented leisure.
Your bridal robes are in the loom, silver and saffron glowing,
Your bridal cakes are on the hearth: O whither are you going?


The bridal-songs and cradle-songs have cadences of sorrow,
The laughter of the sun to-day, the wind of death to-morrow.
Far sweeter sound the forest-notes where forest-streams are falling;
O mother mine, I cannot stay, the fairy-folk are calling.

Sarojini Naidu

Translation Studies: Key Terms and Concepts

Click for PPT on Machine Translation
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Click for PPT on Relevance of Translation
Click for PPT on TRANSLATING DRAMTIC TEXTS
Click for PPT on Translation of Poetry
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Translation Shifts and untranslatability: Power Point presentations.

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Film studies: Mise en scene, Long Takes, Deep focus, montage, editing, continuity editing, cross cutting, 180 Degree Rule, 30 Degree Rule, Jump Cut

(taken from Studying Film)

M I S E EN S C E N E

This term originally developed in relation to theatre and literally translates as 'putting on the stage'. For our purposes it refers to 'placing within the shot'. A significant part of the meaning produced by a film comes from the visual content - this is to a large extent how the story is told. What a shot consists of is therefore crucially important. As James Monaco writes, '[b]ecause we read the shot, we are actively involved with it. The codes of mise en scene are the tools with which the filmmaker alters and modifies our reading of the shot'. The elements covered by mise en scene are: setting, props, costume, performance, lighting and colour. But in addition to choosing what is to be included in a shot, someone also has to decide how the elements are to be arranged. In other words, composition is also central to mise en scene. A director needs to make a number of decisions when deciding on shot content and arrangement. It needs to be recognized, however, that though the director is the person ultimately responsible for such matters, film conventions established over time can also play a large part in shaping mise en scene. Genre films tend to require particular elements, thus restricting the director's freedom. We also need to be aware that while we may try to determine the meanings produced by a shot, it

is very likely that other spectators will interpret differently, especially when viewing from a different cultural perspective. In other words shots can be polysemic; they can have many meanings.

Long Take

If shot sizes tend to be large at the beginnings of films and scenes, an equivalent characteristic can be noted for shot duration or the length of a take. The average duration of a shot is approximately 6 seconds, but introductory shots are often at least twice this length. Again, the pace tends to be slower in order to allow the viewer more time to become acquainted with characters and locations. If we look at 2 minutes from near the beginning of Cinema Paradiso (1989) we find only five shots. Within this time we are introduced to the main character Salvatore and his wife, who informs him that an old friend, Alfredo, has died. This leads into a flashback to his youth which goes on to provide his

childhood memories, which constitute the bulk of the film. If we then look at a 2-minute period from the climactic section of the film, when Salvatore saves Alfredo from a fire in the village cinema, we find 52 shots. The narrative a//ows short takes because we know the location and characters well, and the narrative also requires short takes because the scene involves action and panic. Imagine the effect if we reversed the shot durations: 52 shots in 2 minutes to introduce characters and only five shots to cover 2 minutes of fastmoving action. There can be other reasons for long takes in a film. Orson Welles famously, and Jean-Luc Godard infamously, have used long takes. In Godard's Weekend (1968) one shot lasts 8 minutes and gradually reveals to us a long line of cars in a traffic jam. As well as also helping to ensure that the film is 'alternative', which was no doubt part of the director's intention, the shot also helps make one of Godard's points about cultural life and consumerism in 1960s France - the point being that while the trend of going away for the weekend grew, it increasingly resulted in people spending the weekend in traffic jams. Welles began Touch of Evil (1953) with a shot that lasts over 3 minutes. It begins with a close up of a bomb being planted in a car. The camera then rises to give us a bird's eye view of the situation, including the car driving off. The camera tracks to catch up with the car, then drops down to enable us to hear a banal conversation between a border guard, a woman and a man. This technique builds suspense as we are expecting an explosion, which soon follows and brings the shot to a close. Being the exception to the rule begs the question: why use a long take instead of editing together several shots covering the same action? It could be argued that in this instance we are given an overview of what is happening in adjacent locations simultaneously as a way of providing us with the bigger picture. However, if this is the intention, then why is the technique not used more frequently? Alternatively it could be argued that such a shot was motivated more by style than by the requirements of the narrative, which is not necessarily undesirable. For now it is sufficient to note that it is a technically impressive shot with incredibly complex timing which has certainly gained a place within the study of film. As Richard Maltby notes: [V]isual style is not usually so conspicuous an element in a movie's performance. In Touch of Evil we notice the emphasis on the camera as an active agent in the manipulation of the audience precisely because we are used to the more anonymous and self-effacing strategies associated with Hollywood camerawork. Long takes or extravagant camera gestures stress the existence of an instrumental, manipulative presence. Having suggested that the long take at the beginning of Touch of Evil may be more to do with style than with content, it would be wrong to assume that this is always the case. T/7a/' regularly uses takes throughout the film of almost a minute's duration. However, the length of the takes is not particularly noticeable because they seem to suit the narrative. The film is set in a small, rural community in Africa. The pace of life is slow and the story is not action driven. The cause-effect processes within the film develop gradually. The narrative requires long takes. What is also noticeable is the lack of camera movement in many of these long takes. The camera allows the narrative to unfold in front of it without trying to add meaning through movement. A further reason for these long takes, which often tend to be long shots too, is the location of the film. The village is surrounded by wide open spaces; there is little to interrupt the vast horizons. Director Idrissa Ouedraogo allows events to unravel against this backdrop of uninterrupted space with a minimum of interference, whereas within the more enclosed confines of most film locations, there is a need to switch to different camera angles and shot sizes, if only to cover all the action. Hitchcock took the long take one stage further in Rope (1948). A reel of film normally lasts no longer than 10 minutes and Hitchcock filmed so that each reel was one complete take. What is more, he began and ended each reel with someone or something passing close to the camera lens so that the screen went dark. At these points the reels were edited together so that the whole film appears to be one long continuous take lasting 80 minutes. The camera continually tracks around the apartment in which the film takes place, following characters and actions to give a variety of perspectives.

Deep Focus

One last aspect of cinematography remains, this being depth of field. Depending on shutter speed, aperture and the amount of light available, a camera can focus on just a small part of what is in the frame or on the whole scene. Focusing on only part of a frame is known as shallow focus and is often used as a device for encouraging the audience to concentrate on a particular part of the scene. Conversely, seeing everything in focus, from foreground to background, is known as deep field photography or deep focus. This technique has probably never been shown more clearly than in the scene referred to earlier (p. 95) from Citizen Kane when Kane as a small boy is seen playing in the snow in the background while his mother and Thatcher talk in the foreground. The shot begins as an exterior shot of Kane. The camera then moves back through a window and past Kane's mother and Thatcher. The camera continues to track back through a doorway, at which point Mrs Kane and Thatcher move to sit in front of the camera. The shot was arranged and filmed by cinematographer Gregg Toland so as to be in focus from foreground to background. It is difficult not to suspect that the shot was contrived to illustrate deep focus; as with other techniques in Citizen Kane, such as use of low key lighting and extreme camera angles, the deep focus here is hardly subtle and can leave the viewer remembering the style of the film rather than its narrative. This is a criticism Robert McKee makes of Welles, claiming that Citizen Kane is all style and no content; in effect, style is the film's content, our eye stops at the screen and does not get through to the narrative. For McKee style should provide access to the narrative and strengthen it.

Montage

The best known example of discontinuity editing is montage, which was much used by Eisenstein, most famously in Battleship Potemkin (1925) in the Odessa Steps sequence (see also Chapter 14). Here the shots that are edited together do not flow smoothly; instead they clash: they conflict with each other. The sequence switches, in a spatially disorientating way, between views of the Tsar's advancing troops and views of the fleeing citizens. The troops are armed, menacing and inhuman; the citizens are unarmed, vulnerable and all too human. The juxtaposition of meanings between the shots results in new meanings, produced by the viewer on seeing the montage of shots that are pieced together. It is also possible for the pace of editing to create a rhythm which itself produces meaning. In the shower scene in Psycho there is no logical progression to the way in which the stabbing of Marion is visually presented; it is a montage of shots. The shots are short and are filmed from a variety of angles - a rhythm is set up by the editing which emphasizes the frenetic rhythm of the stabbings. The knife comes from different directions and these shots are intercut with short shots of Marion struggling. The effect of the sequence is to create a feeling of confusion, madness, panic. No doubt precisely what Hitchcock wanted.

E D I T I N G

After the completion of filming, the final stage is editing, the selection and piecing together of shots to form the completed film. Just as a range of choices exists for the cinematographer when manipulating light and using a camera, so editing offers many possibilities.

C o n t i n u i t y Editing

One of the key principles is continuity editing. Most films, in one way or another, attempt to have us fully engrossed in what we see. The intention is that we escape into the film for the duration of the screening. The concept of 'willing suspension of disbelief sums up the experience of much film-going. We know that what we see on the screen isn't real, in other words, we disbelieve it, but in order to fully engage with the film we willingly suspend that disbelief - we happily ignore our doubts about the authenticity of what we see. We allow ourselves to enter the world (the diegesis) of the film. In order that we can experience films in this way, it is important that we are not reminded that we are watching a film and that we are not confused by an incomprehensible  presentation of events in the narrative. Annette Kuhn writes: 'Continuity editing establishes spatial andtemporal relationships between shots in such a way as to permit the spectator to "read" a film without any conscious effort, precisely because the editing is "invisible".' (in Cook and Bernink, 1999, p. 40) For this to be possible, it is essential that the shots flow smoothly from one to another and that our attention is not drawn to the edit points. In effect, the shots support each other. One shot logically leads to the next and to a degree we expect the next shot: there is a continuity between one shot and the next. A number of techniques help make this possible.

C r o s s - c u t t i n g

Cross-cutting is an invaluable editing technique and is commonly used for building suspense. It consists of editing together shots of events in different locations which are expected eventually to coincide with each other. We shall look in Chapter 10 at the way omniscient narration can build suspense by providing an overview of different areas of action, and cross-cutting is the realization of such a narrative approach. At the end of Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels (1998) we are aware that Tom is desperately trying to get rid of two shotguns which he believes are incriminating evidence. However, we then cut to a pub where his associates have just learned that the guns are worth a fortune. Suspense is built through editing between Tom trying to dump the guns into the Thames and his associates desperately trying to phone him to stop him getting rid of the guns. In one respect, cross-cutting breaks the film's continuity by suddenly jumping to another scene; however, the close linking together of the two scenes ensures coherence.

The 180 Degree Rule

There are a couple of important 'rules' associated with editing. The 180 degree rule specifies that the camera should not have 'crossed the line' of action when two shots are edited together. This is particularly important during a scene where two characters are interacting with each other in some way. We will have subconsciously noted that one character is on one side of the screen while the other is on the opposite side. The line of action is an imaginary line passing through the two characters. If the camera were to be placed on the other side of the action in the next shot, then the position of the characters would be reversed (see Figure 6.6). It could take the viewer a second or two to realize what had happened and this might interrupt involvement in the film. In reality audiences are fairly adept at quickly ascertaining what has happened in such an edit; indeed, it is increasingly common to see the line crossed. In the cafe scene when Jimmy and Henry meet towards the end of GoodFellas (1990), the camera crosses the line but our involvement is not dramatically disrupted. The two ways of safely crossing the line are to either track across the line in one continuous shot or have an intermediate shot on the line in between the two shots.

The 30 Degree Rule

The 30 degree rule (Figure 6.7) indicates that if two shots of the same location or action are edited together, then either the camera should move position by at least 30 degrees or the shot size should radically change. If this does not happen then the effect is a jump cut. The elements within the shot appear to jump slightly, producing a disconcerting effect on the viewer.

Jump cut

An edit between two shots which results in an abrupt and conspicuous change in the shot content
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Literature and its constituent parts

 Literature (Definition by The Routledge Dictionary of Literary Terms): In present times generally taken to be imaginative compositions, mainly printed but earlier  (and still, in some cultures) was oral, whether dramatic, metrical or prose in form. This is a relatively recent usage, having general acceptance in the European languages only from the nineteenth century. Earlier senses have been less restricted: for example, the body of writings in a language, artistic or not; and particularly, the study of such a corpus of written materials. For an account of the history of the term, see Rene Wellek, ‘The name and nature of comparative literature’ in Discriminations (1970), especially pp. 3–13. No ‘discovery procedure’ is needed for literature. Borderline cases are easier to resolve than at first appears, and their manner of resolution is instructive. William McGonagall may be a bad poet, but he is clearly a poet: there is craftsmanship, a sense of tradition, even if both qualities are precariously fulfilled in his work. (We can say he is a poor artist, but that is not the same as asserting that he is not an artist: EVALUATION is quite independent of identification as literature.) But the telephone book, though highly structured, fails to be literature because it is ‘real’ – a list of people, addresses, numerical codes for calling these actual people. Contrast Scott Fitzgerald’s list of Gatsby’s visitors in The Great Gatsby (1925), a parodic manipulation in art of a form from everyday life. So  the criteria seem to be of different kinds, some formal and some existential; but they apply fairly clearly in individual cases. We may seek the characteristics of literature from many points of view, some intrinsic and some extrinsic. Extrinsically, we will certainly want to regard it as a definite cultural institution, an interrelated set of SEMIOTIC systems. We can note the values a society assigns to its literature: these vary from society to society and from age to age, ranging from seriousness and ritual, to frivolity and verbal play (and different GENRES have different expectations). Literature has commonly been distinguished from linguistic ephemera, effort being expended to preserve it in script or oral tradition; it has been regarded as a potent tool in the transmission and preservation of cultural values; it has also often been associated with an elite, either conservative or revolutionary, or with an influential and selfesteeming bourgeoisie. Cultural attitudes towards literature, such as these are empirical: they may be derived from anthropological and sociological observations.

A different series of extrinsic criteria involves speculation about the relationship between literature and individuals, society or culture. In relation to authors, works have been claimed to be either expressive, gestures from the  writer’s personal character and perceptions (Longinus, Wordsworth) or, contrariwise, impersonal, creations which efface their creators as individuals (Yeats, Eliot, NEW CRITICS). In relation to the reader, literature has been supposed to have many different functions and effects. Theorists who assume impersonality in respect to origin generally assume stasis in respect to effect: if the audience is ‘moved’ by the aesthetic experience, it is not moved to action (so propaganda, PORNOGRAPHY, etc. have not been considered art because

they are kinetic). On the quality of stasis, the aesthetician would generally concur with the law courts: that which pumps our adrenalin is not art (cf. AUTHOR, READER, ART). More specific theories of literary EFFECT have been proposed: the various sophistications of a concept of PLEASURE, or I. A. Richards’s belief that literature causes stability, harmonization of impulses, in a successful reader (Principles of Literary Criticism, 1924), or the doctrine of CATHARSIS, the essentially harmless release of emotions. Such theories proliferated in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries: pressed to the extreme, the lead to a belief that literature can cleanse and save society (Arnold, Leavis) – but here the theory undermined itself, since on that interpretation literature hardly differs from propaganda or sermons. If literature is a form of persuasion (as the RHETORICAL tradition claims) there must be supplementary criteria specifying exactly what kind of persuasion it is – for example, persuasion to adopt a certain ‘world-view’ but not persuasion literally to fight to change the world. Fictionality is one such criterion (see

FICTION, IMITATION). Evidently literature ‘imitates’, ‘depicts’, ‘represents’, ‘presents’, ‘embodies’ people, objects, societies, ideas: Mr Micawber, Middlemarch, Howards End, Camus’s plague. Literature is not alone in this respect – the telephone book, an inventory of the contents of a house, the service manual for a car, are also representational. But if someone’s neighbours listed in the directory enjoy spatio-temporal existence, Mr Micawber does not; thus the concept of imitation is different for David Copperfield and for the telephone directory. Fiction is creative: its creations are felt to be real, but are actually abstract and therefore cannot be said so easily to impinge on one’s worldly experience. Literature is irresponsible in the sense of amoral. Compare Archibald Macleish’s dictum that a poem must be ‘equal to: not true’ (Ars Poetica). Considerations of truth and reality are not relevant to literature; but my car handbook must be true, since it is designed to guide actions. On the basis of such observations, literature is traditionally distinguished from science, history, philosophy, etc. Literature is at the same time like the other arts (in terms of FORM or STRUCTURE) and unlike them (in terms of LANGUAGE). Now we appeal to intrinsic criteria, and ‘poem’ creeps in as the general term, inviting us to substitute a focus on the individual literary construct for the ‘extrinsic’ focus on literature as a cultural institution or as an influence on the psyche. ‘Poem’ retains its etymological connotations (Greek poesis, ‘making’) and evokes the literary work as a ‘made thing’, an artefact, a single, unique, construct; a hard enduring object (and not a pale reflection of something else). As soon as we have achieved a definite conception of the poem as a single, coherent, aesthetic object, we are instantly involved in ontological speculations: what mode of being does a literary work enjoy? Is it, in fact, an independent entity, or is it located in, for example, the writer’s or reader’s consciousness? (see EFFECT, INTENTION, LANGUAGE). If it has a mode of separate being, what are its ‘internal’ characteristics? Various styles of criteria have found fashion in attempts at the intrinsic definition of literature or of particular kinds of literature. The CHICAGO CRITICS avoided an overall definition, but erected a scheme of ‘parts’, abstract structural components (CHARACTER, DICTION, PLOT, etc.); a particular selection from this set of components, in an appropriate order of importance, serving to define the nature of each GENRE. Thus the complete field of literature is, allegedly, mapped out by a set of characterizations of the genres. The intrinsic quality (if it exists) remains undefined. A quite different approach, though dependent on equally abstract notions, results from assuming that any literary work is literary by virtue of possessing certain qualities which are common to the arts as a whole (cf. AESTHETICS, and the recommended reading below): ‘balance’, ‘composition’, ‘structure’ and so on. However, a definition of literature derived from general aesthetics would certainly have to be augmented by criteria which make reference to the linguistic medium. The search for intrinsic linguistic criteria intensified in Russian, Czech and French Formalism and Structuralism, with writers, such as Jakobson, Mukaìovskò, Todorov and Culler making illuminating claims. The ideas are dealt with in the articles on FORMALISM, STRUCTURALISM, and particularly POETICS, which also list major titles for further reading. The majority of contemporary critics are of the opinion that literature as such cannot be adequately defined, though its previous definitions can be analysed in terms of their cultural and ideological assumptions. ‘Literature’ thus appears more as a descriptive term that refers to texts which are deemed to have certain intrinsic family resemblances that enable them to be discussed for extrinsic purposes under the heading, though ‘fictionality’ is not a reliable measure with which to decide whether a text will institutionally or more generally be considered to be ‘literature’. For the older traditions, see M. C. Beardsley, Aesthetics: Problems in the Philosophy of Criticism (1958); M. Bradbury and D. J. Palmer (eds), Contemporary Criticism (1970); E. Vivas and M. Krieger (eds), The Problems of Aesthetics (1953); M. Weitz (ed.), Problems in Aesthetics (2nd edn, 1970); R. Wellek and A. Warren, Theory of Literature (3rd edn, 1963); W. K.Wimsatt, Jr and C. Brooks, Literary Criticism: A Short History (1957); Peter Widdowson, Literature (1998).

  

'What is Wrong with Indian Films'- Satyajit Ray (1948)

One of the most significant phenomena of our time has been the development of the cinema from a-turn-of-the century mechanical toy into the century’s most potent and versatile art form. In its early chameleon-like phase the cinema was used variously as an extension of photography, as a substitute for the theater and the music hall, and as a part of the magician’s paraphernalia. By the twenties, the cynics and know-all had stopped smirking and turned down their nose.

Today, the cinema commands respect accorded to any other form of creative expression. In the immense complexity of its creative process, it combines in various measures the functions of poetry, music, painting, drama, architecture and a host of other arts, major and minor. It also

combines the cold logic of science with the subtlest abstractions of the human imagination. No

matter what goes into the making of it, no matter who uses it and how- producer for financial

profits, a political body for propaganda or an avant-garde intellectual for the satisfaction of an

aesthetic urge-the cinema is basically the expression of a concept or concepts in aesthetic terms;

terms which have crystallized through the incredibly short years of its existence.

It was perhaps inevitable that the cinema should have found the greatest impetus in America. A country without any deep-rooted cultural and artistic traditions was perhaps best able to appraise the new medium objectively. Thanks to pioneers like Griffith, and to the vast-sensation mongering public with its constant clamor for something new, the basic style of filmmaking was evolved and the tolls of its production perfected much quicker than would be normally possible. The cinema has now attained a stage where it can handle Shakespeare and psychiatry with equal facility.

Technically, in the black and white field, the cinema is supremely at east. Newer development in color and three-dimensional photography are imminent, and it’s possible that before the decade is out, the aesthetics of film making will have seen far-reaching changes. Meanwhile, ‘studios sprang up’ to quote an American writer in Screenwriter, ‘ even in such unlikely lands as Indian and China’ One may note in passing that this spring up has been happening in India for nearly forty years. For a country so far removed from the centre of things, India took up film production surprisingly early.

The first short was produced in 1907 and the first feature in 1913. By the twenties it had reached the status of big business. It is easy to tell the world that film production in India is quantitatively second only to Hollywood; for that is a statistical fact. But can the same be said of its quality? Why are our films now shown abroad? Is it solely because India offers a potential market for her own products? Perhaps the symbolism employed is too obscure for foreigners? Or are we just plain ashamed of our films?

To anyone familiar with the relative standards of the best foreign and Indian films, the answers must come easily. Les us face the truth. There has yet been no Indian Film which could be acclaimed on all counts. Where other countries have achieved, we have only attempted and that too not always with honesty, so that even our best films have to be accepted with the gently

apologetic proviso that it is ‘after all an Indian film’.

No doubt this lack of maturity can be attributed to several factors. The producers will tell you about the mysterious entity ‘the mass’, which ‘goes in for this sort of things’, the technicians will blame the tools and the director will have much to say about the wonderful things he had in mind but could but could not achieve. In any case, better things have been achieved under much worse conditions. The internationally acclaimed post-war Italian cinema is a case point. The reason lies elsewhere. I think it will be found in the fundamentals of film making.

In the primitive state films were much alike, no matter where they were produced. As the pioneers began to sense the uniqueness of the medium, the language of the cinema gradually evolved. And once the all important functions of the cinema-eg movement- was grasped, the sophistication of style and content, and refinement of technique were only a matter of time. In India it would seem that the fundamental concept of a coherent dramatic pattern existence of time was generally misunderstood. Often by queer process of reasoning, movement was equated with action and action with melodrama. The analogy with music failed in our case because Indian music is largely improvisational.

This elementary confusion, plus the influence of the American cinema are the two main factors responsible for the present state of Indian films. The superficial aspects the American style, no matter how outlandish the content, were imitated with reverence. Almost every passing phase of the American cinema has had its repercussion on the Indian film. Stories have been written based on Hollywood success and the clichéd preserved with care. Even where the story has been genuinely Indian one, the background has revealed an irrepressible penchant for the jazz idiom. In the adoptions of novels, one of two courses has been followed: either the story has been distorted to conform to the Hollywood formula, or it has been produced with such devout

faithfulness to the original that the purpose of filmic interpretations has been defeated.

It should be realized that the average American film is a bad model, if only because it depicts a way of life so utterly at variance with our own. Moreover, the high technical polish which is the hallmark of the standard Hollywood products, would be impossible to achieve under existing Indian condition. What the Indian cinema needs today is not more gloss, but more imagination, more integrity, and a more intelligent appreciation of the limitations of the medium.

After all, we do possess the primary tools of film making. The complaint of the technician notwithstanding, mechanical devices such as the crane shot and the process shot are useful, but

by no means indispensable. In fact, what tools we have, have been used on occasion with real

intelligence. What our cinema needs above everything else is a style, an idiom, a sort of iconography of cinema, which would be uniquely and recognizably Indian.

There are some obstacles to this, particularly in the representation of the contemporary scene. The influence of Western civilization has created anomalies which are apparent in almost every aspect of our life. We accept the motor car, the radio, the telephone, streamlined architecture, European costume, as functional elements of our existence. But within the limits of cinema frame, their incongruity is sometimes exaggerated to the point of burlesque. I recall a scene in a popular Bengali film which shows the heroine weeping to distraction with her arms around a wireless-an object she associates in her mind with her estranged lover who was once a radio singer. Another example, a typical Hollywood finale, shows the heroine speeding forth in a sleek convertible in order to catch up with her frustrated love who has left town on foot; as she sights her man; she abandons the car in a sort of a symbolic gesture and runs up the rest of the way to meet him. The majority of our film are replete with visual dissonances’. In Kalpana, Uday Shankar used such dissonances in a conscious and consistent manner so that they became part of his cinematic style. But the truly Indian film should steer clear of such inconsistencies and look for its material in the more basic aspects of Indian life, where habit and speech, dress and manner, background and foreground, blend into a harmonious whole. It is only in drastic simplification of style and content that hope for the Indian cinema resides. At present, it would appear that nearly all the prevailing practices go against such simplification. Starting a production without adequate planning, some-times even without a shooting script; a penchant for convolutions of plot and counter-plot rather than the strong, simple unidirectional narrative; the practice of sandwiching musical numbers in the most unlyrical situation; the scope, and at the same time when all other countries are turning to the documentary for inspiration- all these stand in the way of the evolution of a distinctive style.

There have been rare glimpses of an enlightened approach in a handful of recent films. IPTA’s Dharti ke Lal is an instance of a strong simple theme put over with style, honesty and technical competence. Shankar’s Kalpana, and inimitable to the peak of cinematic achievement. The satisfying photography which marks the UN documentary of Paul Zils shows what a discerning camera can do with the Indian landscape. The raw material of the cinema is life itself. It is incredible that a country which has inspired so much painting and music and poetry should fail to move the film maker. He has only to keep his eyes open, and his ears. Let him do so.

Published in the Statesman, an English daily.

RePublished- ' Our films Their Films'

Orient Longmam