 "Guide to a song")
The long relationship between literature and cinema is full of anecdotes about writers feeling demeaned or bullied by a medium they couldn't relate to, from George Bernard Shaw's reaction to winning a screenplay Oscar for the film version of Pygmalion ("It's an insult, as if they had never heard of me before - and it's very likely they never have. They might as well send some honour to George for being King of England") to countless stories about literary authors standing by helplessly as their ideas are butchered. A brilliantly surreal expression of this theme occurs in the Coen Brothers' film Barton Fink, which begins as an apparently straight story about a playwright employed by a big Hollywood studio, but builds up to an apocalyptic climax that literalises the idea of the artist in Hell.
Barton - shell-shocked and fearful as things collapse around him - reminds me a little of the droll self-portrait offered by R K Narayan in an essay about the filming of his novel The Guide. Narayan manages to be very funny even while relating what must have been a trying time for him. The "glamorising" of his small-town story began with the casting of Dev Anand and Waheeda Rehman in the roles of Raju the guide and Rosie the dancer; changes were made to the story itself and locations were expanded; the production crew fawned over him initially, but it soon became clear that he was irrelevant. ("I began to realise that monologue is the privilege of the filmmaker, and that it was futile to try butting in with my own observations.")
However much one admires Narayan, a film can be a brilliant achievement in its own right even if it isn't a faithful adaptation. To watch the movie that Vijay Anand eventually made of Narayan's novel is to see how different the language of good cinema can be from that of good literature. And while there are many ways of appreciating Anand's Guide, I spent a large amount of time this month - while preparing for a talk at a college - watching its song sequences and marvelling at the skill with which the director uses long, unbroken takes to add dramatic intensity and continuity to a given situation.
The classic example of this is the visualisation of the song "Tere Mere Sapne". This sequence lasts more than four minutes, but it is made up of only three shots - which means there are only two cuts in the entire scene. And this isn't an arbitrary stylistic decision; it is central to what is happening in the film at this point. Rosie has just confronted her domineering husband and announced that she is leaving him. She has lately developed a bond with Raju, but the song marks the first time that the possibility of a real future together is being broached. So we have two people who are very vulnerable in different ways: Rosie is confused and uncertain about her next step, and Raju, a hitherto carefree man, is taking on responsibility and baring his own heart. As if mindful of the significance of the moment, the camera moves slowly, respectfully around the duo, observing them but not being intrusive. The two cuts both occur after a movement of the song has been completed, and both have Rosie drawing away from Raju after initially reaching for him. She is still conflicted at the end of both these movements, and in each case the cut serves as punctuation, indicating that the process of reassuring her must begin anew. This is then done at a dual level, by the lyrics of the song as well as by the sympathetic, probing movement of the camera.
There are other notable elements in this scene, such as its unusual use of light and the time of day. The journalist Mayank Chhaya recalls that Anand was very clear about the sky being a specific pinkish-orange colour that would match the lyrics of the song. The scene begins in dusk, and as it continues the darkness grows - this is a notable departure from the sort of symbolism where a declaration of love would coincide with dawn breaking, and it underlines the fact that the song is not about casual infatuation but about long-term commitment. The near-perfect melding of music, setting, performance and camera movement make this scene - and others like it - a classic of visual, cinematic storytelling. Even the beleaguered novelist would probably have appreciated that in the end.
Barton - shell-shocked and fearful as things collapse around him - reminds me a little of the droll self-portrait offered by R K Narayan in an essay about the filming of his novel The Guide. Narayan manages to be very funny even while relating what must have been a trying time for him. The "glamorising" of his small-town story began with the casting of Dev Anand and Waheeda Rehman in the roles of Raju the guide and Rosie the dancer; changes were made to the story itself and locations were expanded; the production crew fawned over him initially, but it soon became clear that he was irrelevant. ("I began to realise that monologue is the privilege of the filmmaker, and that it was futile to try butting in with my own observations.")
However much one admires Narayan, a film can be a brilliant achievement in its own right even if it isn't a faithful adaptation. To watch the movie that Vijay Anand eventually made of Narayan's novel is to see how different the language of good cinema can be from that of good literature. And while there are many ways of appreciating Anand's Guide, I spent a large amount of time this month - while preparing for a talk at a college - watching its song sequences and marvelling at the skill with which the director uses long, unbroken takes to add dramatic intensity and continuity to a given situation.
The classic example of this is the visualisation of the song "Tere Mere Sapne". This sequence lasts more than four minutes, but it is made up of only three shots - which means there are only two cuts in the entire scene. And this isn't an arbitrary stylistic decision; it is central to what is happening in the film at this point. Rosie has just confronted her domineering husband and announced that she is leaving him. She has lately developed a bond with Raju, but the song marks the first time that the possibility of a real future together is being broached. So we have two people who are very vulnerable in different ways: Rosie is confused and uncertain about her next step, and Raju, a hitherto carefree man, is taking on responsibility and baring his own heart. As if mindful of the significance of the moment, the camera moves slowly, respectfully around the duo, observing them but not being intrusive. The two cuts both occur after a movement of the song has been completed, and both have Rosie drawing away from Raju after initially reaching for him. She is still conflicted at the end of both these movements, and in each case the cut serves as punctuation, indicating that the process of reassuring her must begin anew. This is then done at a dual level, by the lyrics of the song as well as by the sympathetic, probing movement of the camera.
There are other notable elements in this scene, such as its unusual use of light and the time of day. The journalist Mayank Chhaya recalls that Anand was very clear about the sky being a specific pinkish-orange colour that would match the lyrics of the song. The scene begins in dusk, and as it continues the darkness grows - this is a notable departure from the sort of symbolism where a declaration of love would coincide with dawn breaking, and it underlines the fact that the song is not about casual infatuation but about long-term commitment. The near-perfect melding of music, setting, performance and camera movement make this scene - and others like it - a classic of visual, cinematic storytelling. Even the beleaguered novelist would probably have appreciated that in the end.
Jai Arjun Singh is a Delhi-based writer