The Magician of the Camera – Subrata Mitra
I had asked him only a single question—because I had
the fortune of speaking with him only once. With Subrata Mitra, the greatest
cinematographer India has ever produced.
His tall frame, his calm face framed by a halo of white hair, evoked wonder again and again. I kept thinking—these were the very eyes that first witnessed the world-famous images on celluloid. This was the man who, if he disagreed, never spared even Satyajit Ray or James Ivory.
There was a time when I was seized with the feverish urge to learn the philosophy of the cinematic camera. In that fever, I found myself seated, spellbound, as his student at the Film and Television Institute of India, in a cinematography class once conducted by Satyajit Ray. To sit in the presence of the god of cinematography, to swallow his words with open-mouthed reverence.
And then, after class, to nervously hurl one timid question, my heart pounding like a drum. Who knew that this would turn out to be the hardest question of his artistic life?
—“Which is the dearest shot, the one you loved most, that you captured with greatest effort?”
India’s master of cinematic vision froze in silence. He looked at my face.
“I cannot. I cannot answer that question. It is impossible. For I never remembered what I had seen through the lens, not even right after the shot was taken. Only in the editing room, later, did I discover—as if by magic—that what my eyes had once glimpsed had turned into an image, a photograph, through the camera.”
A renowned European camera company once advertised with his name: He uses our camera. In Hollywood, there was no shortage of people who envied him. For his sake, Ismail Merchant once had to change the location of a shoot. Commercial cinematographers came to him to learn how to truly see with the camera.
From Pather Panchali (1955) to New Delhi Times (1985), for thirty long years, Subrata Mitra served as the devoted sentinel behind the camera. Until his last days, his life was inextricably bound to it. Toward the end, he assumed the role of a teacher, offering his students the gift of initiation, his priceless advice. I saw him many times panning the camera to demonstrate something to his students. I had so many more questions for him. But I never asked.
Pather Panchali, Aparajito, Parash Pathar, Jalsaghar, Apur Sansar, Devi, Kanchenjunga, Mahanagar, The Householder, Charulata, Shakespeare-Wallah, Nayak, Teesri Kasam, The Guru, Bombay Talkie, An August Requiem—each one of these films was a milestone shaped by his vision. Or take the breathtaking photography of Ramesh Sharma’s Tibetan documentary Rumtek. Both Satyajit Ray and James Ivory counted Subrata Mitra among their favorite cinematographers. And yet, this man slipped away silently, dying in Kolkata.
The television channels, the media houses—many of which were filled with his students, friends, and colleagues—organized neither a retrospective, nor even a simple program in his honor.
For the greatest cinematographer this country has ever produced, there was no excitement, no remembrance. In India, unless one is a star actor, a director, a music director, or a playback singer, one is destined to remain an outcast in the world of cinema. Most Indian film enthusiasts do not even know the meaning of the word “cinematographer.”
And yet it was he who showed the world that cinematography is not a mere game of machines. He, who carried India’s name to the world and conquered it, remains unrecognized in his own land.
When shall we give Subrata Mitra—the magician of the camera—the honor that he so justly deserves?
His tall frame, his calm face framed by a halo of white hair, evoked wonder again and again. I kept thinking—these were the very eyes that first witnessed the world-famous images on celluloid. This was the man who, if he disagreed, never spared even Satyajit Ray or James Ivory.
There was a time when I was seized with the feverish urge to learn the philosophy of the cinematic camera. In that fever, I found myself seated, spellbound, as his student at the Film and Television Institute of India, in a cinematography class once conducted by Satyajit Ray. To sit in the presence of the god of cinematography, to swallow his words with open-mouthed reverence.
And then, after class, to nervously hurl one timid question, my heart pounding like a drum. Who knew that this would turn out to be the hardest question of his artistic life?
—“Which is the dearest shot, the one you loved most, that you captured with greatest effort?”
India’s master of cinematic vision froze in silence. He looked at my face.
“I cannot. I cannot answer that question. It is impossible. For I never remembered what I had seen through the lens, not even right after the shot was taken. Only in the editing room, later, did I discover—as if by magic—that what my eyes had once glimpsed had turned into an image, a photograph, through the camera.”
A renowned European camera company once advertised with his name: He uses our camera. In Hollywood, there was no shortage of people who envied him. For his sake, Ismail Merchant once had to change the location of a shoot. Commercial cinematographers came to him to learn how to truly see with the camera.
From Pather Panchali (1955) to New Delhi Times (1985), for thirty long years, Subrata Mitra served as the devoted sentinel behind the camera. Until his last days, his life was inextricably bound to it. Toward the end, he assumed the role of a teacher, offering his students the gift of initiation, his priceless advice. I saw him many times panning the camera to demonstrate something to his students. I had so many more questions for him. But I never asked.
Pather Panchali, Aparajito, Parash Pathar, Jalsaghar, Apur Sansar, Devi, Kanchenjunga, Mahanagar, The Householder, Charulata, Shakespeare-Wallah, Nayak, Teesri Kasam, The Guru, Bombay Talkie, An August Requiem—each one of these films was a milestone shaped by his vision. Or take the breathtaking photography of Ramesh Sharma’s Tibetan documentary Rumtek. Both Satyajit Ray and James Ivory counted Subrata Mitra among their favorite cinematographers. And yet, this man slipped away silently, dying in Kolkata.
The television channels, the media houses—many of which were filled with his students, friends, and colleagues—organized neither a retrospective, nor even a simple program in his honor.
For the greatest cinematographer this country has ever produced, there was no excitement, no remembrance. In India, unless one is a star actor, a director, a music director, or a playback singer, one is destined to remain an outcast in the world of cinema. Most Indian film enthusiasts do not even know the meaning of the word “cinematographer.”
And yet it was he who showed the world that cinematography is not a mere game of machines. He, who carried India’s name to the world and conquered it, remains unrecognized in his own land.
When shall we give Subrata Mitra—the magician of the camera—the honor that he so justly deserves?
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