Serious Tribute to Satyajit Ray- Birth Centenary

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Pather Panchali (India, 1955)

A movie review by James Berardinelli


When discussing "giants" of the non-English-speaking, international film world, four names leap immediately to mind: Ingmar Bergman, Federico Fellini, Akira Kurosawa, and Satyajit Ray. Of these men, Ray has received the least North American exposure, but, arguably, the most critical acclaim. Praise for the Indian director, who died in 1992 shortly after receiving a lifetime achievement Oscar, has been effusive from both film makers and critics. Vincent Canby, of the New York Times, once wrote that "an entire world is evoked" by each of Ray's films. The late Louis Malle called Ray's body of work "magical and completely unique." And James Ivory, the director of Howards End and The Remains of the Day, has said that, after watching a Ray movie, the viewer will feel "fulfilled, enriched, maybe wiser, and wanting more."
Indeed, it is Ivory, along with his partner, Ismail Merchant, who has made this screening of Pather Panchali, Ray's directorial debut, possible. With financial backing from Sony Pictures Classics, Merchant and Ivory have cleaned up, packaged, and released a series of Ray pictures for distribution in select United States theaters. Included in "The Masterworks of Satyajit Ray" is the complete Apu Trilogy, which is comprised of three of the director's early films: Pather Panchali, Aparajito, and The World of Apu.

The movies, which exist on video but are not readily available, are worth searching out. Anyone who believes in the uplifting power of motion pictures will not be disappointed.


Pather Panchali, Ray's first foray into the film making world, was completed in 1955, and proceeded to win the top prize at the 1956 Cannes Film Festival. It's a quiet, simple tale, centering on the life of a small family living in a rural village in Bengal. The father, Harihar (Kanu Bannerjee), is a priest and poet who cares more about his writing and spiritual welfare than obtaining wages he is owed. The mother, Sarbojaya (Karuna Bannerjee), worries that her husband's financial laxity will leave her without enough food for her two children, daughter Durga (Uma Das Gupta) and son Apu (Chunibala Devi). Harihar's family often lives on the edge of poverty, coping with the unkind taunts of their neighbors, the burden of caring for an aging aunt (Chunibala Devi), and the terrible aftermath of a natural catastrophe.

Pather Panchali starts slowly, but builds inexorably towards a powerful climax as we come to know, and empathize with, the characters. Ray takes the time to create a meticulously believable world that draws the viewer in. There isn't a false note in the entire film -- not in the characterization, the dialogue, or the storyline. The emotions evoked by the events of Pather Panchali are honest and true, not the contrived byproducts of manipulative formulas. Ray makes us feel with the characters, not just for them.

Most of what transpires is shown through the eyes of either Sarbojaya or Durga, and, as a result, we identify most closely with these two. Harihar is absent for more than half of the movie, and, before the penultimate scene, Apu is a mere witness to events, rather than a participant. Until the closing moments, we don't get a sense of the young boy as a fully formed individual, since he's always in someone else's shadow.


With its often-poetic black-and-white images and heartfelt method of storytelling, Pather Panchali speaks intimately to each member of the audience. This tale, as crafted by Ray, touches the souls and minds of viewers, transcending cultural and linguistic barriers. The languorous pace, which initially seems detrimental, proves to be an asset -- Pather Panchali would not have been the same experience had material been cut. Each scene builds upon what has come before. This is the kind of motion picture that will stay with you for hours, or perhaps even days, after you've left the theater, and that's a rare characteristic for any movie.

 

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The Apu Trilogy

Roger Ebert March 04, 2001

The great, sad, gentle sweep of "The Apu Trilogy" remains in the mind of the moviegoer as a promise of what film can be. Standing above fashion, it creates a world so convincing that it becomes, for a time, another life we might have lived. The three films, which were made in India by Satyajit Ray between 1950 and 1959, swept the top prizes at Cannes, Venice and London, and created a new cinema for India--whose prolific film industry had traditionally stayed within the narrow confines of swashbuckling musical romances. Never before had one man had such a decisive impact on the films of his culture.
Ray (1921-1992) was a commercial artist in Calcutta with little money and no connections when he determined to adapt a famous serial novel about the birth and young manhood of Apu--born in a rural village, formed in the holy city of Benares, educated in Calcutta, then a wanderer. The legend of the first film is inspiring; how on the first day Ray had never directed a scene, his cameraman had never photographed one, his child actors had not even been tested for their roles--and how that early footage was so impressive it won the meager financing for the rest of the film. Even the music was by a novice, Ravi Shankar, later to be famous.

The trilogy begins with "Pather Panchali," filmed between 1950 and 1954. Here begins the story of Apu when he is a boy, living with his parents, older sister and ancient aunt in the ancestral village to which his father, a priest, has returned despite the misgivings of the practical mother. The second film, "Aparajito" (1956), follows the family to Benares, where the father makes a living from pilgrims who have come to bathe in the holy Ganges. The third film, "The World of Apu" (1959), finds Apu and his mother living with an uncle in the country; the boy does so well in school he wins a scholarship to Calcutta. He is married under extraordinary circumstances, is happy with his young bride, then crushed by the deaths of his mother and his wife. After a period of bitter drifting, he returns at last to take up the responsibility of his son.

This summary scarcely reflects the beauty and mystery of the films, which do not follow the punched-up methods of conventional biography but are told in the spirit of the English title of the first film, "The Song of the Road." The actors who play Apu at various ages from about 6 to 29 have in common a moody, dreamy quality; Apu is not sharp, hard or cynical, but a sincere, naive idealist, motivated more by vague yearnings than concrete plans. He reflects a society that does not place ambition above all, but is philosophical, accepting, optimistic.

He is his father's child, and in the first two films we see how his father is eternally hopeful that something will turn up--that new plans and ideas will bear fruit. It is the mother who frets about money owed the relatives, about food for the children, about the future. In her eyes, throughout all three films, we see realism and loneliness, as her husband and then her son cheerfully go away to the big city and leave her waiting and wondering.

The most extraordinary passage in the three films comes in the third, when Apu, now a college student, goes with his best friend, Pulu, to attend the wedding of Pulu's cousin. The day has been picked because it is astrologically perfect--but the groom, when he arrives, turns out to be stark mad. The bride's mother sends him away, but then there is an emergency, because Aparna, the bride, will be forever cursed if she does not marry on this day, and so Pulu, in desperation, turns to Apu--and Apu, having left Calcutta to attend a marriage, returns to the city as the husband of the bride.

Sharmila Tagore, who plays Aparna, was only 14 when she made the film. She projects exquisite shyness and tenderness, and we consider how odd it is to be suddenly married to a stranger. "Can you accept a life of poverty?" asks Apu, who lives in a single room and augments his scholarship with a few rupees earned in a print shop. "Yes," she says simply, not meeting his gaze. She cries when she first arrives in Calcutta, but soon sweetness and love shine out through her eyes. Soumitra Chatterjee, who plays Apu, shares her innocent delight, and when she dies in childbirth it is the end of his innocence and, for a long time, of his hope.

The three films were photographed by Subrata Mitra, a still photographer who Ray was convinced could do the job. Starting from scratch, at first with a borrowed 16mm camera, Mitra achieves effects of extraordinary beauty: Forest paths, river vistas, the gathering clouds of the monsoon, water bugs skimming lightly over the surface of a pond. There is a fearsome scene as the mother watches over her feverish daughter while the rain and winds buffet the house, and we feel her fear and urgency as the camera dollies again and again across the small, threatened space. And a moment after a death, when the film cuts shockingly to the sudden flight of birds.

 

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Larsen on Film









Pather Panchali is truly one of the most delicate, humble and deeply felt movies I’ve ever seen. It will wreck you, build you up, ennoble you and leave you in a daze. You know, sort of like life.

The first installment in director Satyajit Ray’s Apu trilogy, Pather Panchali is set in rural Bengal in the 1920s, where a small family – consisting of a stooped, older aunt; a worried, mindful mother; a dreamy, often absent father; a clever older sister; and a lively younger brother – scratch out a quiet life in the shadow of richer, more established neighbors. The movie opens with little Durga (Runki Banerjee), before her brother Apu has been born, stealing fruit from those neighbors and the subsequent shaming of her mother (Karuna Banerjee) for the act. Need, honor, shame – these will continue to be the themes that dominate the household as the years roll by.

As the unofficial name of the trilogy suggests, Apu (Subir Banerjee) will come to be the focus of the tale, and what a delightful introduction he gets. In hopes of avoiding school, Apu is hiding under a blanket and pretending to be asleep when his older sister (now played by Uma Das Gupta) slowly pulls the blanket away to reveal a close-up of his bright, playful eye. Those eyes will prove to be the movie’s spark, and your heart will rise and fall as you watch toil and trouble try to snuff them out.

The sibling relationship between Durga and Apu is the heart of the film, so simpatico are the young actors in their scenes of everyday intimacy. Ray’s camera captures their squabbles, games and moments of tenderness, whether they’re huddling together during a rainstorm or chasing after a man selling sweets – not because they have money to buy any, but because it’s better to at least be near the possibility of sweets than to live in a world completely devoid of them.

Need, honor, shame – these will continue to be the themes that dominate the household as the years roll by.

There is death in Pather Panchali, but for me the most wrenching scene is a slighter one that marks a monumental change in this brother-sister relationship. After Apu has taken something of Durga’s without asking, the two begin to bicker. Their mother separates them and tells Durga: “You’re too old for a toy box.” Their crestfallen faces suggest the significance of the line their mother has just drawn, between Apu’s childishness and Durga’s adolescence. She’s opened a devastating rift.

In this moment and others, Ray’s film is perfectly attuned to the universal rhythms of family life. There is a wonderful scene in which they are all gathered outside their meager home, Apu’s father (Kanu Banerjee) working on a story or poem while Apu aspirationally scribbles something next to him; the mother brushing Durga’s hair nearby; and aged auntie (Chunibala Devi) mending her shawl in the corner. The quiet domesticity is interrupted by the whistle of a faraway train (one of a few instances in which traditional life is invaded by modernity). The camera cuts to Apu, who immediately looks up, and the gleam of excited curiosity in his eyes tells us that he’s already, in some sense, begun to leave this nest.

That cut is representative of the way Ray’s camera is always where it needs to be – and in the way it needs to be there. He consistently puts us at the very heart of the family dynamic. The variety and intricacy of the camerawork is astonishing, especially considering Ray and cinematographer Subrata Mitra were new to filmmaking. Among their techniques is an insistent tracking shot as the father paces outside the home during Apu’s birth. Another is a prankish POV shot from inside a large jug as Apu pulls a gaggle of kittens from it. There’s even a swish pan during one of the mother and aunt’s frequent squabbles that suggests Ray is a key influence on Wes Anderson.

Ray and Mitra also make exquisite use of their rural setting. The sunlight is so plentiful, they must have only shot on the brightest of days. When smoke from cooking fires is added, the effect is otherworldly. The contrast to this idyllic scenery, of course, is the monsoon sequence, a drenching darkness that turns the figures on the screen into ghostly blurs. In the aftermath of this destruction, we come to understand just how closely to the edge Apu’s family has been living. If the movie leaves you emotionally drained, it’s because you’ve been living with them all along.

 

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APU---

 

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Durga

Durga and Indir

 

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A scene from Pather Panchali, Sarbajaya, Durga and Apu

 

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( Ray directing Indir ( chunnibala) )

 

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Martin Scorsese on Ray










So, for most of us here in the West, seeing the trilogy for the first time was a bracing and eye-opening experience, and a very moving one as well. The people that had been in the background of so many movies were now the characters in the foreground. The pictures told stories of everyday life in a vein that was somewhat similar to Italian neo-realism. And the artistry? The filmmaking? It took my breath away. It was poetic, immediate, sweeping and intimate, all at the same time.

I saw all three pictures in one sitting in a theatre in Manhattan. I was mesmerised. That remarkable close-up of Apu’s eye in Pather Panchali, the way the cut works with the sudden burst of Ravi Shankar’s music — for me, that was one of those precious revelatory moments you have in a movie theatre, and it had a profound and lasting effect on me as a filmmaker.

And the trilogy was only the beginning of one of the greatest bodies of work in the history of cinema.

We all need to see the films of Satyajit Ray and re-see them, again and again. Taken all together, they’re one of our greatest treasures.

Martin Scorsese is an Oscar-winning Italian-American film director, screenwriter, producer.

 

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Pather Panchali is Ray’s debut film, and the first film of his ‘The Apu trilogy’. The remaining two films of the trilogy, Aparajito and Apur Sansar, follow Apu as the son, the man and finally the father. Pather Panchali has a universal humanist appeal. Though the film deals with the grim struggle for survival by a poor family, it has no trace melodrama. What is projected in stead is the respect for human dignity.

The most loveable character is that of Indir Thakrun, an old, cynical, loving and storytelling aunt of Apu and Durga. It was played by an 80-year-old Chunibala, a retired theatre performer who relished coming back into the limelight after 30 years of obscurity.

The sequences of Apu and elder sister Durga, exploring their little world and sharing secrets are most remarkable aspect of the film. These include the scenes of – discovery of train by Durga and Apu in field of white Kash flowers, the candy seller sequence, and Indir Thakrun’s death.

In the inspired ‘candy-seller’ sequence, as Durga and Apu secretly relish tamarind paste, their mother is complaining about hardships to their father. Durga hears a faint bell. She knows it is the candy-seller. Both go out and look longingly at the the pots with sweets in them. Durga sends Apu to ask for money from their father. Mother intervenes, and Apu returns empty handed. But the site of the pot-bellied candy-seller caring two bobbing pots of sweets is too tempting to resist. Both start following him. A stray dog joins the procession as it is reflected in a shimmering pond.

The film develops its characters and the atmosphere slowly and resolutely. The narrative builds up to a powerful climax as we begin to empathise with the characters.

Some critics found the film to be too slow. Satyajit Ray wrote about the slow pace –

“The cinematic material dictated a style to me, a very slow rhythm determined by nature, the landscape, the country. The script had to retain some of the rambling quality of the novel because that in itself contained a clue to the authenticity: life in a poor Bengali village does ramble.”

Towards the end of the film, after death of Durga, we see Apu brushing his teeth, combing his hair… going about performing tasks, which would have involved his sister or mother. Sarbajaya (mother) has a lost look…

Harihar returns, unaware of Durga’s death. In a jovial mood he calls out his children. Without any reaction, Sarbajaya fetches water and a towel for him. Harihar begins to show the gifts he has brought for them. When he shows a sari that he has bought for Durga, Sarbajaya breaks down. We hear the high notes of a musical instrument “Tarshahnai” symbolising her uncontrollable weeping. Realising Durga’s loss, Harihar collapses on his wife.

We see speechless Apu, for the first time taking the centre stage in the story. Till now the story was seen through the point of view of either Sarbajaya or Durga. It is only in these final moments that we see Apu as an independent individual.

In the USA, Pather Panchali played at the 5th Avenue Playhouse for a record 36 weeks, breaking the previous record held by The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari.

 

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What others say,...

The first film by the masterly Satyajit Ray - possibly the most unembarrassed and natural of directors - is a quiet reverie about the life of an impoverished Brahman family in a Bengali village. Beautiful, sometimes funny, and full of love, it brought a new vision of India to the screen.
Pauline Kael
Film critic
One of the most stunning first films in movie history. Ray is a welcome jolt of flesh, blood and spirit.
Jack Kroll
Newsweek drama and film critic.
A beautiful picture, completely fresh and personal. (Ray's camera) reaches forward into life, exploring and exposing, with reverence and wonder.
Lindsay Anderson
British film director
As deeply beautiful and plainly poetic as any movie ever made. Rare and exquisite.
Hazel-Dawn Dumpert
Film critic, L.A. Weekly