is full of such seemingly small moments, that somehow add up to an avalanche of emotion, and cinematic thrill. His films appear simple enough to be seen as descriptions of everyday life, but when one is swept into them they suddenly reveal themselves as grand, painterly vistas of the whole cosmos.
Funny that I should use the word "appear", since appearances are one of the key motifs in the film. "You don't pay attention to appearances" says the husband Subrata, somewhat chidingly, to Arati, and very soon after that the ironies of fate (or should we say of reality) kick in: Arati has to find a job, and the job she applies for seeks, in the job advertisement in the paper, an attractive- looking woman; and the truly tragic irony shows its face when Arati actually does begin to pay more attention to the way she looks: the lipstick and sunglasses become, in the hands of the master film-maker, containers of such jealousy that their handling in the film equals the handkerchief in "Othello".
And whereas Arati is a source of multifaceted jealousy to her husband (her stunning beauty, her well-paying job, his unemployment, her social standing within the work community), another motif of the film, aside from appearances, is in the act of seeing properly. In the beginning of the film there are several characters with glasses (Subrata, his sister Bani), and Subrata's father Priyagopal has lost his and pouring over crosswords at night is well-nigh destroying all that is left of his eyesight. This is all physical, but there is the figurative sense, too: Subrata, during the film, fails to see the solution that Arati go to work and earn money; he fails to see the dire straits the bank he works in is in; then he is blinded by jealousy, and does not realize the stroke of luck Arati is for the family. His father is no different in his own way: unable to fully realize that his son and daughter-in-law are in great financial difficulties, partly because of him and his wife, he wants to use money to gamble on crosswords; he fails to see his son's worth, and goes on to disgrace Subrata to Priyagopal's former students. Even Mr. Mukerjee is painted as someone who does not see further than his own nose, and it is, ultimately, Arati who wakes him up (assuming he does wake up, Ray doesn't show).
(Arati is painted as impulsive by Mr. Mukerjee (written without the 'h' in the Criterion booklet), but at the same time she is the one who sees clearer than the rest, and acts on that, impulsively or not. He has the same surname as Madhabi Mukherjee, by the way)
I think this is a marvellous construction on Ray's part, and the way he weaves even cosmic importance from the everyday life is magical. But it wouldn't work if the characters weren't so rooted in their reality, and interact so truly with each other. For example, the banter between Arati and Subrata is not only hilarious, it's real, and so the characters become real people to us, and thus we enter the film on a whole new level. My favourite moment is the phone conversation between Arati and Subrata, where she asks what kind of questions they might as in the job interview. The expressions on both their faces, especially on Arati's, give such a simple joke a meaning that goes beyond what we see in the film. Their relationship reaches beyond the film, and it really feels like they've always been married and we look into their lives for these two hours only, after which they'll continue living on.
Ray's films always exhibit the highest level of acting. No matter what the role, the actors and actresses not only give their all but their performances are sculpted into poems by Ray. Madhabi Mukherjee is among the most inspiring actresses of the twentieth century, and a legend on her own right. There are other fabled director-actress combinations in European cinema, but the films they made together, Ray and Mukherjee turned into art, and art into magic. She lights up the screen whenever she's in-frame, and one thinks of her whenever she's not there. I hardly think anyone could ever ask for, or achieve, more than that.
Funny that I should use the word "appear", since appearances are one of the key motifs in the film. "You don't pay attention to appearances" says the husband Subrata, somewhat chidingly, to Arati, and very soon after that the ironies of fate (or should we say of reality) kick in: Arati has to find a job, and the job she applies for seeks, in the job advertisement in the paper, an attractive- looking woman; and the truly tragic irony shows its face when Arati actually does begin to pay more attention to the way she looks: the lipstick and sunglasses become, in the hands of the master film-maker, containers of such jealousy that their handling in the film equals the handkerchief in "Othello".
And whereas Arati is a source of multifaceted jealousy to her husband (her stunning beauty, her well-paying job, his unemployment, her social standing within the work community), another motif of the film, aside from appearances, is in the act of seeing properly. In the beginning of the film there are several characters with glasses (Subrata, his sister Bani), and Subrata's father Priyagopal has lost his and pouring over crosswords at night is well-nigh destroying all that is left of his eyesight. This is all physical, but there is the figurative sense, too: Subrata, during the film, fails to see the solution that Arati go to work and earn money; he fails to see the dire straits the bank he works in is in; then he is blinded by jealousy, and does not realize the stroke of luck Arati is for the family. His father is no different in his own way: unable to fully realize that his son and daughter-in-law are in great financial difficulties, partly because of him and his wife, he wants to use money to gamble on crosswords; he fails to see his son's worth, and goes on to disgrace Subrata to Priyagopal's former students. Even Mr. Mukerjee is painted as someone who does not see further than his own nose, and it is, ultimately, Arati who wakes him up (assuming he does wake up, Ray doesn't show).
(Arati is painted as impulsive by Mr. Mukerjee (written without the 'h' in the Criterion booklet), but at the same time she is the one who sees clearer than the rest, and acts on that, impulsively or not. He has the same surname as Madhabi Mukherjee, by the way)
I think this is a marvellous construction on Ray's part, and the way he weaves even cosmic importance from the everyday life is magical. But it wouldn't work if the characters weren't so rooted in their reality, and interact so truly with each other. For example, the banter between Arati and Subrata is not only hilarious, it's real, and so the characters become real people to us, and thus we enter the film on a whole new level. My favourite moment is the phone conversation between Arati and Subrata, where she asks what kind of questions they might as in the job interview. The expressions on both their faces, especially on Arati's, give such a simple joke a meaning that goes beyond what we see in the film. Their relationship reaches beyond the film, and it really feels like they've always been married and we look into their lives for these two hours only, after which they'll continue living on.
Ray's films always exhibit the highest level of acting. No matter what the role, the actors and actresses not only give their all but their performances are sculpted into poems by Ray. Madhabi Mukherjee is among the most inspiring actresses of the twentieth century, and a legend on her own right. There are other fabled director-actress combinations in European cinema, but the films they made together, Ray and Mukherjee turned into art, and art into magic. She lights up the screen whenever she's in-frame, and one thinks of her whenever she's not there. I hardly think anyone could ever ask for, or achieve, more than that.