Films have always been defined by the periods in which they were made. Though, initially, films borrowed from stage plays and were, therefore, adaptations of literary works, or told us stories from religious texts or mythology, filmmakers and storytellers soon began to understand the reach of this new medium. Film-makers with a social consciousness began to make movies based on societal ills, harnessing the power of the medium to take their point of view across to audiences. With the birth of a new nation, stories began to express the aspirations of a populace long accustomed to being second-class citizens in their own country, and the hopes and dreams of a young nation as it set forth to become the master of its own destiny. This continued through the 50s.
The advent of colour and the swinging sixties changed the narrative to sheer escapism. Boy meets girl, romance ensues, and the fight to live their own life as they see fit, dominated the narrative. It was the era of Shammi Kapoor, pretty heroines, mistaken identities, hill stations – and glorious music. Then, the 70s came along and the audience could be forgiven for getting whiplash.
On the one hand, there was Amitabh Bachchan, the Angry Young Man, taking on the establishment on behalf of the common man. He channelled the rage that the nation’s youth were feeling – looming unemployment, union unrest, and the burgeoning gap between rich and poor had sent them spiralling into despair; he was their saviour.
On the other was a fresh-faced teenager, with a penchant for singing songs and romancing pretty heroines. But Rishi Kapoor was also a rebel. Unlike heroes earlier, he did not go away to earn his living and his beloved’s parents’ respect. No, he eloped with her, daring her parents (and sometimes, his) to stop them.
And juxtaposed between these two extremes were two film movements that were beginning to gain steam – ‘art’ cinema, as represented by luminaries like Satyajit Ray, Mrinal Sen, Adoor Gopalakrishnan et al, and ‘middle cinema’ pioneered by the likes of Bimal Roy and popularised by his assistants like Hrishikesh Mukherjee, Gulzar, Basu Bhattacharya, and… Basu Chatterjee.
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| 256 pages Rs699 Vintage Books |
And it is he who is the subject of National Award-winning author, Anirudha Bhattacharjee’s latest book. Beginning his career in films by assisting Basu Bhattacharya on Teesri Kasam (1966), Basu Chatterjee went on to make films about ordinary middle-class people. His protagonists worried about getting leave sanctioned; they travelled in local trains and buses; they romanced each other in office canteens, while waiting at bus stops or by simply walking in the rain, hand in hand. Ordinary people, simple joys.
His male characters were mostly timid men who were fearful of bucking authority; his female characters were inevitably working women, independent and self-reliant. There were no great villains in their lives; just petty jealousies, one-up-man-ship, and sometimes, Life. No one was evil, you didn’t hear a swear word on-screen. Basu da’s (as he was popularly known) films were, in common parlance, ‘family entertainers’.
Basu Chatterjee and Middle-of-the-Road Cinema begins with an affectionate foreword by Sai Paranjpye, followed by the author’s note. Then, divided into three parts, comes the deep dive into Basu da’s cinema. Book One begins with a short bio that gives us a glimpse of the man Basu da was, the influences that shaped him, and how they impacted the stories he chose to tell. It traces his journey from librarian and cartoonist to prolific film-maker and culminates in the release of his first film Sara Aakash (1969). It also has a chapter on ‘Basu’s Bombay’, the city forming the backdrop, indeed a character in itself, in several of his films.
Book Two chronicles the bulk of his filmography, from being a ‘hit machine’ in the mid-70s – films like Piya ka Ghar, Rajnigandha, Chitchor, Chhoti Si Baat, etc., to several middling films in the latter half of the decade – films like Dillagi, Manzil, Hamari Bahu Alka, Man Pasand, Pasand Apni Apni among others.
Book Three looks at Basu da’s work in television, from the pioneering Rajani (1985) and the much-loved Byomkesh Bakshi (1993,1997) to telefilms like Ek Ruka Hua Faisla (1986), an adaptation of 12 Angry Men (1957) as well as Basu da’s foray into Bengali cinema.
And in doing so, Bhattacharjee also shows us how Basu da worked with actors like Jaya Bhaduri, Amol Palekar, Vidya Sinha and Bindiya Goswami as well as with stars like Rajesh Khanna, Amitabh Bachchan and Dharmendra,
With all of them, what we got to see were ordinary people doing ordinary things. Who would think that a galvanometer would be a plot device? Or that a family van would cause us to ache with laughter?
Bhattacharjee’s attempt here is to dissect Basu Chatterjee’s films and analyse what made them click. The focus is on the director’s films, TV serials and telefilms, with sparkling anecdotes that reveal the man himself (how the ‘director cameos’ came to be; why there was often a female character named Prabha in his movies; why he was considered a ‘producer’s director’, etc.) He delves into the music in Basu da’s films – whether it is the gorgeous soundscape of Chitchor and Rajnigandha, Lata’s exquisite Na jaane kyun (Chhoti Si Baat), the lovely Kishore solo, Rhim jhim gire saawan (Manzil), Pal bhar mein ye kya ho gaya (Swami), among others.
One thing that I have always appreciated about Bhattacharya’s (and co-author Balaji Vittal’s) books is the immaculate and extensive research that is bolstered by accounts from the various principals. Featuring interviews with Basu da himself, as well as with his family members, colleagues, and the actors he worked with, Basu Chatterjee and Middle-of-the-Road Cinema is a deeply analytical look at Basu da’s oeuvre. At the same time, it pays homage to Basu da’s closest collaborators like KK Mahajan (cinematographer), Bansi Chandragupta (art director) and Salil Choudhury (music director).
Choc-a-bloc with anecdotes from the sets of his films, we are invited into a behind-the-scenes look at how some of our deeply-cherished films came to be, the machinations to make a film within a budget and the hard work that went into creating celluloid history. Bhattacharjee does well in quoting the many people he spoke to, almost verbatim, preferring to transcribe their quotes, however long, instead of paraphrasing them. This leads to a tumultuous symphony of voices chiming in to add their perspective on a much-loved director.
Bhattacharjee also includes excerpts from other interviews, articles and even books, and a small, eclectic collection of photographs. His affection for his mercurial subject is very evident. It is an affection that seems to be universally shared. Every single person that the author references – from Shabana Azmi and Madhuchhanda Chakrabarty (the heroine of Saara Akash) to other cast members, staff, unit members, etc., talks of how he was very laid back on set, seldom getting angry; how his sets always seemed like a family unit; how he initially insisted on shooting in real locations instead of ‘sets’; how strict he was about paying people on time; how unassuming and genial he was; and how he was loath to waste time, money or other resources while shooting.
But Bhattacharjee’s affection for the director does not constrain him from offering a dispassionate analysis of Basu da’s shortcomings, including how his sense of financial responsibility and personal ethics eventually led to the decline of his brand of cinema. The author is clear in pointing out how Basu da cared two hoots for continuity, or even for the period in which his films were set. This objectivity prevents the narrative from becoming a hagiography. Instead, what we get is a composite picture of a simple yet complicated human being – just like the characters he presented on screen.
Aniruddha Bhattacharjee’s work is an excellent, well-crafted
tribute to the prolific film-maker, who wanted to do only one thing – make movies
as long as he lived.
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