Not Boi (Books), But Films

At a lecture in memory of Satyajit Ray, Derek Malcolm—film critic of The Guardian and director of the London Film Festival—once narrated a revealing story. After his speech, the audience began bombarding him with questions. One of them was: “Do you believe critics always judge filmmakers fairly?”
 
His answer was candid—“No. A critic cannot always evaluate an artist with complete justice.” And then he shared his story. At Cannes, he was tasked with selecting films to showcase at the London Festival. He watched film after film, day and night, until exhaustion dulled his senses. Into this haze, a debut director’s work appeared on screen. After forty minutes, Malcolm, fatigued beyond patience, walked out. He did not select the film for London.
 
Later, when the same film was commercially released in London, Malcolm went to see it again. This time, with rested eyes, he discovered its brilliance. He admitted, without hesitation, that he had committed a grave mistake by rejecting it earlier.
 
How uncanny! Every year, during the Kolkata International Film Festival, the same realization dawns upon many viewers. After a day of relentless screenings, the final film of the evening becomes an ordeal; eyes blur, the mind slumbers. I, too, discovered this truth. At Nandan’s last show, I went in to see Carlos Saura’s Tango. Like Malcolm, fatigue robbed me of understanding. Back home, however, scenes of Tango flared in memory. The next day I returned, this time alert, attentive—and Saura’s genius revealed itself in full splendor. Had I reviewed it after the first night, it would have been a grave injustice to the film.
 
Weeks later, when I reflect upon Tango, I realize how one honors a masterpiece only by giving it the gift of patient attention.
 
Saura’s Tango joins a constellation of marvels: Goya, Subiela’s Adventures of God, The Dark Side of the Heart, Don’t Die Without Telling Me Where You’re Going, Bellanger’s Postmortem, Paul Cox’s Innocence, Tozzanazzi’s Making Love, Ripstein’s No One Writes to the Colonel, Lombardi’s Captain Pantoja and the Special Services, Zanussi’s Life as a Sexually Transmitted Fatal Disease. These films formed the treasures of this year’s festival.
 
Of the 140 films screened, 72 were from 1999 or 2000—the “recent releases.” Yet every year, a chorus of complaint arises: “Where are the new films? Where are the great ones?” Seasoned festival-goers, however, confess that with age their appreciation of films grows richer. And still—let us not expect Kolkata to rival Cannes or Berlin.
 
Another complaint: films shown in Cannes or Berlin rarely appear here. A few do—last year Angelopoulos’ Eternity and a Day, this year Saura’s Tango. But Kolkata has no competitive section, hence fewer art-house premieres. And some films screened abroad, replete with unfiltered sexuality, would never pass Indian censorship. Festival organizers here often find themselves accused of two contradictory sins: importing only “obscene foreign films,” or failing to bring “important world cinema.” The truth lies somewhere between.
 
The greater paradox is this: in drawing-room secrecy, the so-called respectable watch pornography without shame; but should a serious film dare to include scenes of sexuality, scissors rush to cut. What hypocrisy could be greater?
 
And then, the neglected voices—African cinema, so often ignored. Last year a few fine works from South Africa appeared; this year, almost none. Hollywood, too, is absent—but this is no loss. For while Hollywood dazzles technically, its artistry rarely belongs in a serious film festival.
 
Nor do the organizers indulge Bollywood or Tollywood. They prefer the parallel cinema of Shyam Benegal or Adoor Gopalakrishnan. Commercial cinema, after all, already has year-round theaters and multinational sponsors. Why should public funds sustain them?
 
In an age when television serials invade the bedroom, cinema cannot survive as mere entertainment. It must be life itself—its mirror, its metaphor. Perhaps this is the greatest gift of the festival: that a few thousand people discover films which speak not of fantasy or melodrama, but of the raw pulse of human existence.
 
Across seven days, one can watch perhaps thirty or thirty-five films—barely a fraction of the 140 screened. The aftermath is bittersweet: a handful of rediscovered classics, a dozen admirable films, and two or three unforgettable masterpieces—alongside the regret of those one missed.
 
As Mrinal Sen once remarked after a Buñuel screening: “It is heartening to see so many young faces in the crowd.” That, perhaps, is the festival’s truest reward.
 
For if the state can sponsor fairs of books, songs, or poetry, why not a fair of films? The lesson we must carry away is simple: that we learn to speak not only of books, but of films.