Excerpt from Bergman Interview

Here is an excerpt from an interview where Charles Thomas Samuels (who asks some really insightful questions) interviews Ingmar Bergman. Taken from the book Encountering Directors.

Samuels: Let me get at my point another way. When Elisabet looks at television and sees a Buddhist monk immolating himself in Vietnam, several critics wanted to take this as an uncharacteristic expression of your interest in politics. But I think it must be related to the later scene - in her bedroom - when she studies the Cartier-Bresson photograph of the Jews being led out of the Warsaw ghetto. Both scenes dramatize the awe inspired in the artist when he faces true suffering - which, however, cannot escape some involvement with art, since both the monk and the Jews reach our consciousness through the art of the photographer.

Bergman: Let me explain exactly what I tried to express in the first scene. The monk scares her because his conviction is so enormous he is willing to die for it. The photograph represents real suffering.

S: But it is, paradoxically, also art. And I find it suggestive that during the great scene in Shame when you show the people being herded in and out of buildings by the soldiers, you yourself recall the composition of Cartier-Bresson's great photograph. Didn't you feel the recollection ?

B: In a way, yes. But I never thought of it. The scene you mention represents humiliation, which is the subject of Shame. The films is not about enormous brutality, but only meanness. It is exactly like what happened to the Czechs. They defended their rights, and now, slowly, they are being submitted to tactics of brutalization that wears them down, Shame is not about bombs, its about gradual infiltration of fear.

S: So that the low budget and the consequent lack of large war scenes precisely reflect your theme.

B: Yes, but Shame is not precise enough. My original idea was to show only a single day before the war had broken out. But then I wrote things and it all went wrong - I don't know why. I haven't seen Shame recently, and I am little afraid to do so. When you make such picture you have to be very hard on yourself. Its a moral question.

S: Why ?

B: Certain things in life are impossible to represent - like a concentration camp.

S: Because the reality is too terrible ?

B: Exactly. It is almost the same with war as with murder or death. You must be a hundred percent morally conscious in treating these things.

S: You must not simply shock.

B: Exactly, to show someone dying is false.

I am becoming more and more disillusioned with depiction of so-called real-events like death and war in the films, not because on screen voilence is bad, but because, as Bergman says, such shocks are essentially false. On a related note, especially related to the still photography, a documentary, Looking for an Icon, is getting some good reviews. It takes four important political still photographs from history and try to deconstruct them.

Link of the Day !

Such posts are rare (link via). Sincere expressions like "I like to keep them [your photos] with me as symbols of beauty" are even rarer. The exceeding beauty of this love letter makes us wonder, is it real !

Read this other exceptional post by him, where father gets seduced by him and "offers" his daughter to him, and in between he throws his most-modern ideas on Feminism.

Manchi Pani Chesaav, Raju gaaro !

On Illness, Jolts and Past...

The last few days in India were very hectic and probably that’s why emotionless. There is no right time to feel right, or is there any right feeling. We feel and forget, and we feel again, and try to throw things in the dustbin of past. What we feel seems so random and misplaced that it seems like a trick played by nature to keep us busy. But sometimes, after a while, patterns emerge, some things keep coming back, others wither away, may be to come back at more unexpected times. Two things kept coming to mind in those last days. One is quite personal; other is more of a by-product of random thinking.

My last few days in India were hospital-bound. Three of my close relatives and family friends, old and not too old, were unexpectedly admitted to hospitals and were diagnosed with serious illnesses. Taking rounds of ICUs, general wards and homes, seeing people you have known for long, drugged and tired, talking with effort, is not a good feeling. People sitting next to them say things like "You cant share someone’s illness", and it seems so true at that time, not that you want to share anything but it reasserts that they alone will bear it, and you helplessly try to make peace with the fact that they are enormously loaded with pain. Does illness of loved ones humble you? Or it just makes you fearful that you will age too? I don’t know but to see people, whom you have seen upright, talking to you, scolding you, unable to talk and recognize you, brings a feeling of eventual collapse. If everything in you and people you know, will end so mercilessly, why try to be so smart and clever in life, and then comes a thought rushing, probably thats why, just to keep us busy and going. A thought of achieving a simpler life, closely knit with the knowledge of its futility, passes by unnoticed and we again stand here, as clever as ever.

The other thought originated from the Tarkovsky's quote at the end of this post. The quote talks about the momentary influence of art on the viewer; it says that art just provides a jolt -the occasion for psychical experience. Viewing this quote from the other side one might ask - when does an artist create [good] ?, I think it comes out as a jolt too. I acknowledge the role of past experience to create and shape up such flash, and the need of afterthought and introspection to polish the ideas to convey them. But I think the idea and the urge to create sparks from that momentary jolt. We all get such jolts through art or personal experiences (like the humbling in case of illness of a loved one) and we quickly try to forget them to move on but an artist stays and observes.

The main point, which may not be anything new or can be utterly superfluous, is that a person can become an artist when he has the ability to stay with the jolt for a longer time than others. It is not to say that an artist understands all the times, but to say that an artist elongates those moments of understanding to create something out of them, yet utterly personal. If we would like to consider the creative life-time of an artist as a better person, a more open and understanding person, then we can try not to nip the jolts, not to trash the past.

Pachelbel's Canon in D

I am listening this for few months now and tried to hear as many renditions I could find on youtube or otherwise, by expert or otherwise, and obviously, I found it truly amazing, exactly fitting into my idea of music, which is not so much of an idea though. Now its a near-cliche in personal circles that I am musically challenged, I dont understand it, although I try to. In a recently read Bergman interview, he quotes what Stravinsky once said "I have never understood a piece of music in my life. I always only feel" to emphasise that his films (and films in general) should also be felt, which I think is bit problematic exposition, because when it comes to images, their preciseness makes them discursive. All said, I always felt and will feel that for a beginner its very important to understand, rather than to feel. I might take pleasure in what Stravinsky said but that is not an earned pleasure. So whatever little music tends to stay with me for a while and dont get butchered by over-listening, begets high respect from me.

As far as music in films goes, I dont like if images try to supersede it, also I feel little uncomfortable, if because of music slight images try to seek some power. Thats why some of the beautiful Hindi film songs, sound so bitter when seen. In films, I think if music is used, more than anything, it should match the camera movements. Anything, trying to match with emotions and themes, is guiding, belittling both music and images. Look at the use of music in Wong kar-wai films, it gyrates with the camera frame. Or be like Fellini, use same music for almost every film, the music you like, which is also true with Kar-wai. A Bollywood movie is a different game, a different theory holds there and I seriously feel that no other movie genre could and would accommodate so much musical variety, its like a genre which has nothing to lose.

Coming back to Pachelbel's Canon in D, I think I liked it because it sounds like Indian music. I dont know the technical terms, but the main difference that I find between the two is of the long and short notes. In music I like long notes, the dragged, the better. Hold the key longer, use major keys. In Hindustani classical, they will stretch it left and right. Thats why I think, I like most of the things played on cello, and I think if Indian music can be played on cello too. So here are few versions of Pachelbel's Canon. This one is little faster than the original but photographed very well. I am fundamentally against music videos, the best is to shoot the recording or the public performance, which shows the creative process, the hardwork into it and most importantly the pleasure to perform, and the second best is to put a montage of emotionless faces [no kids please], like the montage of pictures in Code Unknown. The idea is not to channelize or steer. This and this are very close to the original. Few versions here, here and here.

Joycean, Dulights and Cunfuisions, Trials and Errors.

I am posting this for basically two reasons, one is quite obvious, that I have nothing else to post or say. And there is no second reason. If there would have been some second reason, it is generally formulated on the fly, to fit in some borrowed view that there are generally many reasons for something. The second reason can be easily constructed from the fact that I issued a book from a local library (which has lots of films too), its called Critical Views on James Joyce, its edited by Harold Bloom with critical essays on Joyce by lot of other writers and academics. I was pretty sure that I wont read it. But I was sure too that I would try to. I was right. I tried and I failed. But there are few things I was so puzzled by, that I would like to put here. Here is the the starting of Samuel Beckett's essay titled Dante... Bruno. Vico.. Joyce. Without delay, here is the beginning which has nothing very special, as you can take any other paragraph and feel similarly confused. One more point before we go, confusing is not derogatory for the subject matter, but it can be for the observer, the reader, the interpreter. Here we go:

The danger is in the neatness of identifications. The conception of Philosophy, and Philology as a pair of nigger minstrels out of the Teatro dei Piccoli is soothing, like the contemplation of a carefully folded ham-sandwich. Giambattiata Vico himself could not resist the attractiveness of such coincidence of gesture. He insisted on complete identification between the philosophical abstraction and the empirical illustration, thereby annulling the absolutism of each conception - hoisting the real unjustifiably clear of its dimensional limits, temporalising that which is extratemporal. And now here am I, with my handful of abstractions, among which notably : a mountain, the coincidence of contraries, the inevitability of cyclic evolution, a system of Poetics, and the prospect of self-extension in the world of Mr. Joyce's Work in Progress. There is the temptation to treat every concept like "a bass dropt neck fust in till a bung crate", and make a really tidy job of it. Unfortunately such an exactitude of application would imply distortion in one of two directions. Must we wring the neck of a certain system in order to stuff it into a contemporary pigeon-hole, or modify the dimensions of that pigeon-hole for the satisfaction of the analogymongers? Literary criticism is not book keeping.

Now that I type it word to word, I do get some of it (may be a delayed attempt to save the soul). Actually, there is one essay in the book that I was able to read and fairly understand, but it falls in the space which Beckett describes as "Exactitude of Application". The essay on Finnegans Wake by Roland McHugh. It takes samples ( author of the essay has divided the whole FW into 4 parts and claims that the samples are fairly representative of the tone and distinct atmosphere of that part of opus). That essay is as helpful as the clues of the cryptic crossword for a person who has recently decided to try harder. It helps, but at times, helps a lot. I will give one line and its "de-complification", done by McHugh here. These lines are used to describe tailor's daughter to Norwegian Captain in such a way that we are continually obliged to construe her in both human and aquatic terms. McHugh describes this as "...but Joyce treat both attitudes as cliche and instead spotlights fortuitous parallelism with a consequent split image and throwaway humor."

... with the grit as hard as trent of the thimes but a touch as saft as the dee in flooing and never a Hyderow Jenny the like of her lightness at look and you leap...

Commentory: On the aquatic plane, the grit of the river bed is as hard as that found in river the river Trent and the river Thames, but the touch of its water is as soft (Norwegian, Saft, Juice) as that of the river Dee in flooding. On the human plane, the anger ( Rhaeto-Romanic, gritta) of the daughter is as hard as the trend of time demands, yet she has a touch as imperceptible as the letter d which has been removed in the word "flooing". Both the water and the girl are light, and they are, therefore, compared with Hydrogen, the lightest element, impetuously failing to look before they leap.

I know that this type of translation, becomes one dimensional after some time, but for beginners, its both necessary and amusing, and above all, inviting to read the original text and try to interpret ourselves.

Good Bye, Hyderabad

PS: Here I tread in mushy waters again. Pardon the melodrama, and overdrawing an itch.

Morning of 8th April will be a difficult morning. There will be so many suitcases to carry, and my heart might fall off too. It might go heavy. I know, I will take care of my stuff on the train to Delhi. I know, after sometime, I will try to strike a stupid conversation with co-passengers. I will count the baggage and all, I promise I will be an intelligent and alert traveler. I will keep in mind that I need to bargain with the coolies and keep in mind all those pre-planned things-to-do. But my heart might go heavy, for I know, some things will haunt me alongside the upcoming jet lag like an Ozu film, forever. The new things should keep me occupied, should not leave me alone for a second, lest the old should grab me.

As my one bedroom flat is becoming messy day by day, there's more unpacking than packing. Someone who believes in sun signs and stuff told me that cancerians are stupid and they can't throw away things. I feel it is true. Its difficult to pack years in 2 bags of 23 kgs and a handbag of 7-8 kgs. One more bag might help, some provision should be made for stupid cancerians. Just few kgs might unload my heart. There are photo albums of 5 years of the pre-digital era. My friends suggest to scan them all, one CD for all the mundane memories, they will never turn sepia too. And there are new softwares available to clean the traces of time, fresh as pastry or dew drop or whatever. Now I might be forced to digitalize the memories of lost treks, messed cookings and doomed drinks, all bright, no sepias or dusky browns. It will be as clear and transient as present. It wont smell, it wont stink.

Clothes that used to fit the trimmer body of yesteryear, the portals to youth, lie there as least priority items alongside the four hankies used for Tokyo Stories, ashamed of their waist sizes or of a patch of dirt here or there. As a smug-caring bourgeois, I will donate the used-stuff to the watchman to trade off for his services. And will think with a pretentious sigh to reach some emotional high - used old stuff for one, past for the other. New suitcases should only have the present, new and crisp. Nothing of the past, it should make an exit, otherwise it will be forced to. I am preparing hard for a smooth loss.

Several print outs of Metamorphosis, all scribbled and marked with old eureka insights, pile as Grete stretches her limbs in the noon sun. Loads of unread fresh books, brought in the bouts of optimism-to-read, virgin and calling for touch, lie in rest. I almost fear the friends who become extra caring when they hear you are leaving, but I can't complain as I had been so for many of them. One should leave the leaver, don't let him feel he is leaving, let him leave, he doesn't deserve your caring. As my best friend said with jarring compassion when I last saw him years ago - go fast, fuck off !

वेयर इज द फ्रेंड्स होम ?

टिप्पणी: जब हम हिंदी बोलते हैं तो कभी नहीं लगता कि कोई तर्जु़मा चल रहा है। पर जब लिखने की बात आती है तो साफ़ दिखता है कि हिंदी से पकड़ बिल्कुल छूट गयी है। अंग्रेजी के शब्दों का अनुवाद करना पड़ता है। अब ये भी समझ मैं नहीं आता कि innocence को भोलापन लिखे या अज्ञानता लिखे या फिर पवित्रता ही लिख डालें। या उर्दू का सहारा लेके मासूमियत या बेगुनाही लिखे। कुछ समय पहले मैं सोचता था कि भाषा का प्रयोग अगर बातचीत में होता रहे तो अच्छा है। बोलने की भाषा घर में प्रयोग होने वाले बर्तनों की तरह है जो रोज़ाना काम में आने से चमकते रहते हैं, ना की महंगे चाइना के टी-सेट की तरह जो विशेष मेहमानों के आने पर संदूक या अलमारी से निकाले जाते हैं। पर इस बात पर आज संशय होता है। बोलना भर काफी़ नहीं, लिखना पढ़ना बहुत ज़रूरी है। ये बात कोई नयी नहीं, पर आज सही से समझ में आई है। तो इस पोस्ट को अपने को हिंदी भाषी कहने वाले नौसिखिये मित्र का प्रयास भर समझे ।

हालांकि अब्बास किअरास्तामी की फिल्म वेयर इज द फ्रेंड्स होम ? (दोस्त का घर कहॉ है?) बच्चों की फिल्म लगती है पर इस फिल्म में कहीँ कहीँ लगभग वो अहसास होता है जो फ्रेंच फिल्म इन्नोसेंस को देख के हुआ था। वो आभास है कि बच्चों और बड़ो की दुनिया में एक अदृश्य दीवार है, जो बड़े लोग जाने अनजाने खड़ा करते रहते हैं, बच्चों को यथा कथित सामाजिक मूल्यों और मान्यताओ के सांचे में ढालने के लिए, वो एक के बाद एक नियम बनाते जाते हैं।

फिल्म के पहले ही दृश्य में यह बात साँफ हो जाती हैं। जब एक बच्चा क्लास में देरी से आता है तो अध्यापक एक नियम बना देता है, जब एक बच्चा कॉपी पे नहीं पन्ने पे गृह कार्य करके लाता है तो एक और नियम, जब एक बच्चा ( नेमत्ज़देह) अपनी कापी अपने भाई के पास भूल आता है तो फिर एक नियम बन जाता है। ऐसा नहीं कि यह सब नियम बेकार और फिजूल के हैं, पर ये सब देख के ये साँफ हो जाता है कि कौन शासक है, और कौन शाषित। बच्चों के भावहीन अशिक्षित चहरे स्पष्ट बोलते हैं कि चाहे उन्हें कुछ समझ में आये या ना आये पर उन्हें यह सब मानना हैं। नेमात्ज़देह को आगाह किया जाता है कि अगर ये गलती दौबारा हुई तो उसे स्कूल से निकाल दिया जाएगा।

कहानी में मोड़ तब आता है जब नेमत्ज़देह के साथ बैठे अहमद को घर जाके पता चलाता है कि वो भूल से नेमत्ज़देह की कापी अपने साथ घर ले आया है, और फिर शुरू होता है अहमद का अपने दोस्त को उसकी कापी वापस करने का सफर । अहमद अपनी माँ से दोस्त के घर जाने के लिए पूछता है पर जवाब ना में ही आता है। जब अहमद की माँ उसे बाहर कुछ काम के लिए भेजती हैं तो मौका पाकर वो अपने मित्र के घर जाने की सोचता है, परंतु अहमद की परेशानियाँ अभी ख़त्म नहीं होती क्योंकि उसे दोस्त के घर का पता मालूम नहीं है। अहमद कई बार घर का रास्ता पूछने कि कोशिश करता है पर हर जगह उसे धुत्कार दिया जाता है और घुमावदार रास्तों और असंवेदनशील लोगों से भरा, दुसरे गाँव का ये सफर , अहमद के लिए ही नहीं दर्शकों के लिए भी नए माने ले लेता है।

परंपरागत सोच वाले, अहमद के दादा के विचार सुनकर एक प्रकार की चिढ और ग़ुस्सा आता है पर नयी पीढ़ी के बढ़े लोग तो दो कदम आगे ही दिखते हैं जो बच्चों पे बिल्कुल ध्यान नहीं देते, उनकी बच्चों के सवालों के प्रति निरोत्सुक्ता, अपने दायित्व के प्रति उदासीनता का उदाहरण मात्र नहीं , पर उस दीवार का चिन्ह है जो बड़ो को बच्चो की बातें समझने के आड़े आती है। जैसे जैसे रात होती जाती है और दोस्त का घर नहीं मिलता, अहमद को डर लगने लगता है और उसका मन दुविधा और इस अनजान गाँव और लोगों के लिए संशय से भर जाता है। यह नन्हे अहमद की मासूमियत के पतन का आरम्भ सा दीखता है।

फिल्म का सबसे विस्मयकारी और धुंधला प्रसंग वह है जब अहमद दोस्त के घर पहुंच कर भी, उसकी कापी उसे वापिस नहीं करता। मैं अपने एक मित्र से,जिसने ये फिल्म देखी है, बात कर रह था कि अहमद ने ऐसा क्यों किया। हम कुछ नतीजो पर पहुंचे पर कुछ पक्का ना कह पाए। मेरा दोस्त बोला तुम तभी समझ सकते हो अगर तुम बच्चे हो। हाँ, शायद यह ही सही है।

किअरास्तामी की सिनेमा में वास्तविकता और कविता का सरल मिश्रण मिलता हैं। फिल्म के आख़री दृश्य में जब अहमद अपने दोस्त को उसकी कापी देता है, और दोस्त के कापी खोलने पर, वृद्ध व्यक्ति का दिया हुआ फूल सामने उभर के आ जाता है, तो एक अद्भूत अनुभूति होती है। कापी में दबे इस फूल के कई अभिप्राय हो सकते हैं, और शायद यह ही इस दृश्य का सौंदर्य है।

नागार्जुन की तीन कवितायेँ...

जी हाँ , लिख रहा हूँ ...

जी हाँ, लिख रहा हूँ ...
बहुत कुछ ! बहोत बहोत !!
ढ़ेर ढ़ेर सा लिख रहा हूँ !
मगर , आप उसे पढ़ नहीं
पाओगे ... देख नहीं सकोगे
उसे आप !

दर असल बात यह है कि
इन दिनों अपनी लिखावट
आप भी मैं कहॉ पढ़ पाता हूँ
नियोन-राड पर उभरती पंक्तियों की
तरह वो अगले कि क्षण
गुम हो जाती हैं
चेतना के 'की-बोर्ड' पर वो बस
दो-चार सेकेंड तक ही
टिकती है ....
कभी-कभार ही अपनी इस
लिखावट को कागज़ पर
नोट कर पता हूँ
स्पन्दनशील संवेदन की
क्षण-भंगुर लड़ियाँ
सहेजकर उन्हें और तक
पहुंचाना !
बाप रे , कितना मुश्किल है !
आप तो 'फोर-फिगर' मासिक -
वेतन वाले उच्च-अधिकारी ठहरे,
मन-ही-मन तो हसोंगे ही,
की भला यह भी कोई
काम हुआ , की अनाप-
शनाप ख़यालों की
महीन लफ्फाजी ही
करता चले कोई -
यह भी कोई काम हुआ भला !

घिन तो नहीं आती है !

पूरी स्पीड में है ट्राम
खाती है दचके पै दचके
सटता है बदन से बदन-
पसीने से लथपथ ।
छूती है निगाहों को
कत्थई दांतों की मोटी मुस्कान
बेतरतीब मूँछों की थिरकन
सच सच बतलाओ
घिन तो नहीं आती है ?
जी तो नहीं कढता है ?

कुली मजदूर हैं
बोझा ढोते हैं , खींचते हैं ठेला
धूल धुआँ भाफ से पड़ता है साबका
थके मांदे जहाँ तहां हो जाते हैं ढ़ेर
सपने में भी सुनते हैं धरती की धड़कन
आकर ट्राम के अन्दर पिछले डब्बे मैं
बैठ गए हैं इधर उधर तुमसे सट कर
आपस मैं उनकी बतकही
सच सच बतलाओ
जी तो नहीं कढता है ?
घिन तो नहीं आती है ?

दूध सा धुला सादा लिबास है तुम्हारा
निकले हो शायद चौरंगी की हवा खाने
बैठना है पंखे के नीचे , अगले डिब्बे मैं
ये तो बस इसी तरह
लगायेंगे ठहाके, सुरती फाँकेंगे
भरे मुँह बातें करेंगे अपने देस कोस की
सच सच बतलाओ
अखरती तो नहीं इनकी सोहबत ?
जी तो नहीं कढता है ?
घिन तो नहीं आती है ?

कर दो वमन !

प्रभु तुम कर दो वमन !
होगा मेरी क्षुधा का शमन !!

स्वीकृति हो करुणामय,
अजीर्ण अन्न भोजी
अपंगो का नमन !

आते रहे यों ही यम की जम्हायियों के झोंके
होने न पाए हरा यह चमन
प्रभु तुम कर दो वमन !

मार दें भीतर का भाप
उमगती दूबों का आवागमन
बुझ जाए तुम्हारी आंतों की गैस से
हिंद की धरती का मन
प्रभु तुम कर दो वमन !
होगा मेरी क्षुधा का शमन !!

हिंदी में ...

इस चिट्ठे से प्रेरित होकर मैंने सोचा कि क्यों ना अपने कोमा-मय ब्लोग में भी कुछ लिखा जाये। कुछ समय पहले हिंदी के प्रसिद्ध रचनाकार निर्मल वर्मा के निधन पर मैंने ये चिठ्ठा लिखा था । उसी का देवनागरी में रूपान्तर लिख रहा हूँ। थोड़े अभ्यास के बाद शायद ज्यादा लिख सकूं ।

अन्तिम अरण्य

..... कुछ लोग कहते हैं कि वो एक दिन के बाद दूसरे दिन में रहते हैं , उस समय उनका मतलब ये ही होता है कि वो एक ही दिन में रहते हैं। जब मैं छोटा था , तब मैंने अपनी गर्मियों की छुट्टियाँ एक छोटे से कस्बाती स्टेशन में गुजारी थीं । वहां मेरे चाचा स्टेशन मास्टर थें। मैं देखा करता था कि रेल के डिब्बे जो पुराने हो जाते थे , उन्हें एक छोटी लाईन पर खड़ा कर दिया जाता था , रेल गाड़ियाँ आती और उन्हें छोड़ कर धड़धड़ाती हुई आगे बढ़ जाती । उन खाली डिब्बों में हम लुका-छुप्पी का खेल खेलते थे । कभी कभी हमे वहां अनोखी चीजें मिल जाती । किसी आदमी का मफलर , सीट के नीचे दुबका किसी लड़की का सेंडल , एक बार तो मुझे एक मुसाफ़िर कि फटी पुरानी नोटबुक भी मिली थी , जिस में पांच रूपये का चीकट नोट दबा था , पर सबसे विस्मयकारी स्मृति स्वम उस रेल के डिब्बे कि थी जो रेल कि पटरी पर खड़ा हुआ भी कहीँ नहीं जाता था ।