This book, the collected film writings of a man who was both an artist and a true lover of cinema, has brought me much more joy than I expected as I read and re-read the promising first words:
A filmmaker rarely writes about films. He is either too busy making one, or too unhappy not to be able to make one, or too exhausted from the last one he made.
My impression of Satyajit Ray has been that of the rare Indian artist revered by both Indian and foreign audiences, but I knew very little about his life and his personal relationship with films. As a result, some of my favourite passages from the book are the ones that seek to humanize him, revealing his boyish jubilation at meeting his favourite directors, or his frustration at seeing their decline, or his fascination during wide-eyed visits to the biggest film studios of the world. There is one particularly moving anecdote, in which he talks about the tragic deaths of two members of his crew, resulting from a faulty piece of film equipment that he had ordered:
I stood rooted to the spot, barely ten feet away, stunned by the magnitude and suddenness of the tragedy. It took me some time to realize that all this would not have happened if I had not set my mind on those overhead shots.
It is especially thrilling to read the passages in which he exhorts Indian filmmakers to forge their own unique school of cinema instead of merely aping the West:
... cinema has never been saved by writers ... No. Words are not enough. Words need the backing of action, or there is no revolution. And the only action that counts is that which a filmmaker calls into play by snapping out his word of command in his own particular field of battle. If his victory, and of many others like him, restore even a little of the dignity a great art form has lost, only then can we talk of having a revolution.
His commentary on the film culture prevailing in India is ruthlessly incisive, but not lacking in empathy. While he speaks of "lopsided film education", of a "lack of connoisseurship", and "undeveloped tastes" in reference to Indian moviegoers and critics, he is also dismissive of snide remarks against the abundance of music in Indian cinema, as he explains:
... to the vast conglomerate mass that makes up the Indian public, the cinema is the only form of available inexpensive entertainment. They have not the choice that the western public has of music halls, revues, plays, concerts, and even, sometimes, of a permanent circus. Yet the craving for spectacle, for romance, for a funny turn or two, for singing and dancing, remains and has somehow to be met. If the film does not meet it, nothing else will.
His knowledge of the history of cinema in all the major film-producing nations of the world is impressive in its detail, full of anecdotes recounted with the unmistakeable excitement of a true cinephile. Having said that, I feel that the inclusion of a few of his book reviews was a mistake as they produce a jarring shift from a man reflecting on cinema, to one dissecting books and personalities instead.
Lastly, I have to add that the official Kindle edition that I read was full of errors that were annoying and oftentimes so horrifyingly amusing that you laugh out loud, thus breaking the spell of Ray's persuasive writing. (Charlie Chaplin's The Gold Rusk, anyone?) Surely, the works of someone who can be considered one of the few renaissance artists of India deserves more than this kind of shoddy editorship.