Constant urge to be different

IT IS a cold day at the National Theatre, London. In Focus and Asian Images are presenting an Aparna Sen retrospective as part of the Asian Women's Festival titled ``Tongues on Fire 2000''. Screenings of ``36 Chowringhee Lane'', ``Paroma'', ``Yugant'' and ``Paromiter Ek Din'' are followed by discussions and workshops at the Institute of Contemporary Arts. Excerpts from the conversation:

You started your career as a child artiste. Were you aware of what was happening around you?

My father was a friend of Satyajit Ray who needed a young girl for his new film ``Samapti''. I was the natural choice. I enjoyed being in the studio and found the atmosphere fascinating. In fact, during the shooting I had such a wonderful time that when the film was over, I hated going back to school.

After doing that one film, what was the reaction of your classmates in school?

Nothing much. It's only that I felt that there was a vast difference in my choice for films and books compared to them. Most girls in my class watched cartoons and fairy tales, whereas I was brought up on a diet of serious films and classics. Not unusual being brought up by film buff parents.

Then what drew you to mainstream cinema?

I don't know. I made my debut in the mainstream and after that somehow all the films were successful. Time went by and I was getting more and more embroiled in formula films, for that's how the box-office functions. My father was appalled by the films I worked in and often grumbled about it. So did I and gradually as I became more conscious, a certain restlessness began seeping in. I ignored it for a while, but the anxiety surfaced at the oddest moments.

Can you recall a particular incident?

There were several. I would walk into a set and find it had nothing in common with the character I was playing. The contradiction worried me and I began making suggestions. They were not always welcome. I was interested in the craft and found myself making note of the trolley movements. Many a time, when I watched the film later, I felt that the director should have used a wider frame, but hadn't. Once I was playing a housewife and had to shoot a scene where I'm ironing. During the scene, I suggested to my director that maybe I could burn the shirt in the process. He loved the idea, but when I saw the film, I noticed that he had retained only my close-up. I was livid. Where is the burning of the shirt, I questioned him? ``It's not necessary,'' he explained. In another film, I was playing a pregnant woman visiting a doctor. The actor was wearing a torch band on his forehead and looked more like an ENT specialist, than a gynaecologist.

It must have been exasperating.

It was amusing and in a way I think they were the germs of the director getting ready in me. Not that I was conscious of it at that time.

So when did you first become conscious that you wanted to become a film maker?

I didn't know direction, but I saw vivid pictures in my mind and I was unafraid to ask questions. I was dissatisfied with the roles I was playing. I had made up my mind to do something more creative, attempt writing short stories. But because I'm not a professional writer, the short story resembled a screenplay. After reading it out to some friends, I decided to take it over to Satyajit Ray. Ray liked it immensely, said there was a lot of heart to it and advised me that I make the film myself. He suggested that I contact Shashi Kapoor, who was in those days funding middle-of-the-road cinema. I wrote him a letter, he called me to Mumbai and ``36 Chowringhee Lane'' was born.

The film looked path-breakingly different.

The look of any film depends on the cinematographer and the art director. Originally, I wanted Govind Nihalani as my cameraman, but he was busy. One day, I was surfing channels and caught a film called ``Witness''. For a cabaret dance sequence, the cameraman had used harsh rotating lighting, fading the background. I thought it was an interesting technique and decided on the same cameraman, Ashok Mehta. After that, Ashok and I would have frequent discussions where I'd show him pictures and paintings, tell him what I like and what I didn't and would even ring him up to ask him to watch the sunset outside his window and observe the lighting. He was very supportive. I told him I wanted the film to have the colours of a crushed flower preserved in a book.

(to be continued)

BHAWANA SOMAAYA

Editor, `g' Magazine

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