Page 153 - The Apu Trilogy_ Satyajit Ray and the Making of an Epic
P. 153

140                    The Apu Trilogy

                alone in these isolated places brought a change in his own state
                of mind’, Banerji writes of Apu. ‘In the city, one’s mind might
                be wholly preoccupied with thoughts of self, desire or ambition.
                Here, under the colossal expanse of the star-studded sky, these
                things seemed both irrelevant and insignificant. ... Even books
                that had once seemed fascinating, or important in his busy life
                in the city, now appeared trivial, dull, unnecessary in his present
                seclusion.’ The real difficulty comes with Ray’s treatment of Apu’s
                novel, which does not exist in Banerji’s book prior to Aparna’s
                death; he begins writing it during his period of renunciation, as
                mentioned before. In the film, Apu, arriving at sunrise on the
                top of a hill, takes the sheets of his manuscript from his cloth bag
                and lets them float away down the hillside on the wind like con-
                fetti. Even for such an intensely romantic Bengali as Apu, this
                symbolic gesture seems implausible – more pretentious than pro-
                found. (To future generations, unaware because of computers of
                how only a single copy of an author’s work could exist, the gesture
                may appear literally unintelligible.) Whatever justification may
                be offered for it, the incident undoubtedly can derive no direct
                support from Banerji’s novel.
                   This false note apart, the remainder of the film is pitch  perfect.
                Back in the village, we see Kajal for the first time since he was
                a tiny baby. Or rather, we do not see him, because his face is
                hidden by a frightening, shark-like mask. With a catapult, the
                masked figure kills a bird, walks up to it in bare feet, pulls the
                mask back, picks the dead creature up by one leg, inspects its
                corpse, and makes a toothy grimace at it, reminiscent of the teeth
                painted on his mask. The combination of life and lifelessness,
                innocence and cruelty, delicacy and clumsiness, in this close-up
                of the angelic-looking child and the dead bird – accompanied by
                playful, yet somehow alien music – is an introduction to Kajal
                even more compelling than our first meetings with the boy Apu
                in Pather Panchali and Aparajito. There is a wildness in Apu’s
                son, not found in Apu himself, due to his orphaned upbringing
                at the hands of his resentful, disciplinarian grandfather; but his








                                                                        9/16/2010   9:09:16 PM
         Robinson_Ch07.indd   140                                       9/16/2010   9:09:16 PM
         Robinson_Ch07.indd   140
   148   149   150   151   152   153   154   155   156   157   158