By Ashwini Malik
Introduction
A few months ago, I did what
I had been putting off for years: I read the Natyashastra, the ancient Indian guidebook of the performing arts.
Interesting as it is, I must confess that as a manual of the performing arts,
that text holds only a moderate interest for me. What I found fascinating about
the Natyashastra were the two
chapters on the rasa theory – I
thought they were invaluable to cinema in general and screenwriting in
particular. I had, of course, heard a lot about the rasa theory and how it has influenced all Indian performing arts,
including Indian cinema, but I always saw a mere superficial resemblance
between Indian cinema and what I understood about the rasa theory. Let me explain. The rasa theory, in brief, states that for a viewing experience to be
complete and satisfying, a play must evoke in the viewer a variety of rasas or flavors or sentiments (from the
following 8: erotic, comic, pathetic, furious, heroic, terrifying, odious,
marvelous). Of these 8, a play may have one ‘dominant’ sentiment, with several
others present in smaller, varying quantities. (The original Natyashastra mentions only eight rasas. The ninth – shanti or peace – was added later, thus leading to the term Navras, meaning ‘nine rasas’. In this essay, I’m sticking with
the original eight rasas. The word rasa, which means juice, has been
translated variously, into, ‘flavor’, ‘sentiment’, ‘emotion’ and ‘mood’. I have
used all these interpretations interchangeably, since the purpose of this essay
is not to argue about semantics. I am less interested in the technicalities of
the rasa theory and more in its core
philosophy.)
It is a well-known fact that
popular Indian films are a hotchpotch of ingredients: there’s drama, emotion,
songs, action, romance, intrigue, comedy… all in generous doses. Yes, perhaps
this can be attributed to the rasa
theory of the Natyashastra. However,
this sort of a simplistic, rather crude interpretation of the ancient text
never quite excited me. Also, most popular Indian films have these ingredients
by design, in almost precise doses, thus making the film seem artificially
crafted. The ingredients do not mix into an organic whole but stick out
awkwardly, resulting in a lumpy, unwholesome product. (It must be said,
however, that the power of the rasa
theory is such that popular Indian films continue to succeed despite this
awkwardness and lumpiness.) So, as I said, I never did take too seriously the
influence of the rasa theory on
Indian cinema since I believed (and still do) that the popular Indian cinema
has, by and large, abused the rasa
theory to the point of making it irrelevant, at least to cinema. For this
reason, I kept putting off the reading of the Natyashastra.
But I couldn’t put it off
forever, could I? After all, I am a ‘teacher’ of screenwriting, mentor
regularly at workshops, engage with students, Indian and foreign, every day of my
life. So I read the Natyashastra.
When I came to Chapters 6 and 7 – the chapters dealing with the rasa theory – I was, to put it mildly,
taken aback. And humbled. Let me explain.
Taken aback. Because on
revisiting in my mind the films that I had found great, films that had given me
a complete, stimulating and satisfying experience, I felt certain that they all
seemed to be following the fundamental principles of the rasa theory. And I mean films from across the world, across genre,
across even divisions like art-house film and commercial film. From Casablanca to Charulata to Raise the Red
Lantern to Before Sunrise to Pulp Fiction to 8 ½ to L’enfant, from Mughal-e-azam to Satya to Udaan, from Eric
Rohmer to Bergman to Satyajit Ray to Ghatak to Majidi and Kiarostami and
Cameron and Nolan and Loach and what have you. And though it is possible that
some of these filmmakers were familiar with the rasa theory, it’s unlikely that all of them were. But their
approach to screenwriting and filmmaking was evolved and holistic, and clearly
resonated with the rasa theory.
Humbled. I had written an essay
attacking screenwriting manuals that went hoarse advocating rules and
principles governing screenwriting. I have always felt that such manuals tend
to reduce screenwriting to a formula and lead to predictable, formulaic films,
which are churned out by the dozen every month in Hollywood. And yet, here I
was, awed by what is essentially a manual, with rules, formulae, principles and
divisions and sub-divisions!
The truth is that I felt
that if the rasa theory is understood
and assimilated by writers and filmmakers, it could give us a new, organic,
holistic approach for connecting with audiences through the movies.
Beyond
Craft
So am I saying that if one
manages to understand and assimilate the rasa
theory, that’s all one really needs to write an effective screenplay? Not
at all. What, then, is the value of traditional storytelling craft as reflected
upon by the likes of Aristotle and Lajos Egri?
The craft is important, of
course. An understanding of structure, creating complex characters, identifying
the central conflict, are all extremely important in telling effective stories
using the medium of cinema. However, I have always felt that there is far too
much emphasis on the so-called ‘principles’ of screenwriting and not enough on
the fundamental quality that makes us connect with a work of art: the feeling
that the work has given us an experience that encapsulates life. Let’s call it
the life-experience.
Life, as we know from
experience, is a bundle of contradictions. Over a period of years we see and
experience every conceivable emotion. It is this experience of life that art
seeks to capture. What makes us connect with a work of art, in this case
specifically film, is that in a matter of 2 hours or so, the film has given us
this experience of life. In other words, it has resonated with our life. We
have felt the pain and the joy, the frustration and euphoria, the passion and
the anger, the fear and the relief that are a part of normal life. Often a
single feeling or sentiment dominates a film. Love, fear, pathos, joy,
whatever. Even in such cases, the film that connects with us succeeds in giving
us a life-experience via the portrayal of other emotions as well. So the rasa theory works at two levels in a
film: one, it helps the film become a microcosm of life by instilling into it
emotions that we experience over extended periods; and two, it enables the film
to capture life in the moment, putting into perspective the dominant emotion by
showing us how the world continues to be awash with other flavors as well, even
when we are preoccupied with our own specific condition. If, for example, at a
certain point in life we are struggling to cope with the death of a loved one,
it is the pain or sorrow of this struggle that defines that phase of our life.
However, while this sorrow is the dominant feeling, the world that we inhabit,
the world that includes us, continues to overflow with all kinds of flavors at
all times. And yet, while all these flavors continue to exist, they do not
overpower the dominant feeling of the sorrow at the death of the loved one. It
is this ironical state that defines life. Life is an assortment of conflicting
emotions. This is the essence of life and any film that manages to capture this
essence is likely to connect with its intended audience, be it the glitterati
at Cannes or city viewers in a multiplex or the peasants at a rickety cinema in
an Indian village. (The Natyashastra
has high regard for the audience, whose entertainment and enlightenment are its
chief concerns.) The beauty of the rasa theory is that it transcends craft
as well as form. It can enrich any kind of work, be it a mainstream film
intended for a large audience, or a work that challenges conventional
storytelling forms.
The
Rasa theory
Natyashastra is
an ancient Indian text in Sanskrit language, written between 200 BC and 200 AD.
It is attributed to the sage Bharata, although it is likely that it was the
work of several persons, and was written over centuries. This text encompasses
all Indian performing arts – theatre, dance, music. Written in Sanskrit verse, Natyashastra is a detailed text, with divisions
and subdivisions, and rules and principles for every little aspect. Like the Mahabharata, the Natyashastra too claims that what is not in it is not to be found
anywhere else either. Chapters 6 and 7 of the treatise deal with the rasa theory, which essentially states
that there are eight dominant sentiments or rasas
that a play can evoke in the audience. These sentiments are evoked by the
portrayal of eight corresponding states.
Sentiment
evoked in audience via
the portrayal of the state
1. Erotic (Shringara) Love
2. Comic (Hasya) Mirth
3. Pathetic (Karuna) Sorrow
4. Furious (Raudra) Anger
5. Heroic (Veer) Vigor
6. Terrifying (Bhayanaka) Terror
7. Odious (Bibhatsa) Disgust
8. Marvelous (Adbhuta) Astonishment
The rasa theory asserts that while every play must portray a variety of states evoking a variety of sentiments, all ingredients in equal measure are not present in life and therefore must not be present in a play. There is usually one dominant sentiment, though it is important to note that the rasa theory does not mention this as a rule. Perhaps it’s possible to have an organic mix of ingredients in a work without the clear dominance of one. We have seen this in many a film (The Godfather, for example. Or 8 ½. And closer home, Meghe Dhaka Tara, and more recently, Udaan), where it’s difficult to define the, if you will, genre, clearly, but it’s quite obvious that the film contains several sentiments. And when there is a single dominant sentiment, other (though not necessarily all) sentiments must be present to enrich it. Thus, a thriller becomes a more satisfying watch if it also has romance and comedy and drama, a love story is more enjoyable if it has organically woven elements of fear and horror, and so on.
The
4 levels of application
Let’s start with a
fundamental, though regrettably pretentious, question: what is the purpose of
cinema? For a moment, let’s put all the exalted purposes aside and look at it
purely from the point of view of the viewer. The viewer wants to be engaged,
entertained, stimulated, enlightened, occasionally challenged and provoked and
disturbed, but finally, satisfied. How does one do this? By creating an
experience on screen that is, a) interesting, b) convincing, and c) complete.
An experience will be
interesting if it is unusual and/or dramatic. An experience will be convincing
if it unfolds plausibly (and the viewer is happy to suspend his disbelief for
an experience if it’s interesting enough). Finally, an experience will appear complete
to a viewer only if it is meaningful in some way, either by giving him an
insight into life or simply the general feeling that he is better off for
having seen the film. So, to narrow it down a bit, for a viewer to be engaged,
entertained, stimulated, enlightened, occasionally challenged and provoked and
disturbed, what is needed is an experience that not only echoes life, but also
makes sense of its seeming pointlessness and randomness. An experience that
strives to capture the essence of life. But how does one capture this essence
of life? Life itself is the product of all kinds of things, with a multitude of
happenings and emotions jostling about in a manner that seems totally random.
How then, does one make sense of life? Perhaps an understanding of the rasa theory can help us.
The Natyashastra often gives the analogy of a fulfilling meal that has
several spices and other ingredients expertly mixed. In other words, the
essence of life can be captured if the viewer is given an experience that contains
an organic mix of several sentiments. The operative term here is ‘organic mix’.
How does one create an organic mix, where different ingredients don’t stick out
awkwardly because they have simply been forced into a work? The answer might
lie, perhaps, in fusing the rasa
theory with the very form of the screenplay.
There are 4 levels at which
a screenplay is put together. (I’m proposing 4, in order to put forth my
argument. Someone else might say 3 or 17 or whatever. It doesn’t matter.) The
most basic level is the seed or the germ, which to translate into concrete
terms, would be the concept of the story. The very concept must contain the
potential to develop into a screenplay that can have various sentiments in an
organic mix. The second level is that of character: who are the people that
inhabit the story? Do they represent a cross-section of the society in which
the story is set? The third level is that of the sequences or the incidents
that are used to tell the story. As we know, the story in a film unfolds via
incidents and a screenplay is nothing but a series of incidents strung together
to make a whole. The very choice of these incidents must be such that they are
able to capture the essence of life via a variety of sentiments. The fourth
level is that of the scene. The scene is the smallest unit of a screenplay and
can be seen as akin to a moment in the script. The moments that a screenwriter
chooses to tell the story must be exactly appropriate, ones that, when seen
together, reflect a variety of sentiments.
A question arises: is it
possible to show a variety of sentiments or emotions in each film, without making
the script seem contrived? It is not easy and if one were to attempt to do this
consciously perhaps the contrivance will show as it does in most popular films,
where things seem to have been forced in to give this so-called ‘complete’
experience to the viewer. However, if we can approach stories in an open,
all-embracing fashion, we might begin to get somewhere. As writers and filmmakers,
what we are effectively doing is creating a brand new world, which we hope will
be true enough to resonate with the world that we know. This world that we
create must be capable of coming alive and the only way that can happen is if
it has everything that the real world has. The world of the story must have
people, governments, roads, traffic rules, relationships, love, joy, pain,
fear, sorrow… Everything. Not an easy task. While we can never really replicate
the real world in cinema, the closer we get to it the truer will it ring.
Level
1: The Seed
There are two aspects to the
seed. The first thing we need to look at is the feeling or emotion that is
powering the screenplay. Is it deep enough and strong enough that the
exploration of it will inevitably cover a gamut of sentiments? Like for
example, the pain of betrayal and love that torments Rick in Casablanca. Or, the intense love and
pain afflicting Tomek in A Short Film
about Love. Or, Phil Connors’s frustration at being stuck in Groundhog Day. Or Charu’s intense
loneliness in Charulata. If one looks
closely at films that have connected, one will note that a profound pain powers
each of those films, because, when it comes right down to it, it is pain that
is the essence of life. In every phase of life, even in apparently ‘happy’
ones, the overwhelming feeling is that of life being a ‘pain’. Even if it’s
simply a matter of traveling from one place to another, the traffic or the
hurry or a rash driver will make the journey painful. And if the journey is not
a pain then the pain will begin when the purpose of the journey starts
unfolding. If we’ve gone to discuss a deal – business deal, property deal, any
deal – there’s the pain of negotiating and putting up with an unpleasant or
manipulative person. If we get the deal, there’s the pain of fulfilling the
deal in a world designed to make things difficult. If one is in a situation of
romance, of course, the pain becomes especially deep and delicious. In short,
one is always struggling, some of us more than others, but no one is not
struggling. Of course the struggle of maneuvering through a traffic jam is
unlikely to power a hundred-minute screenplay but it certainly does contribute
to the overall feeling of life being a struggle. Since cinema is limited in terms
of time and cannot possibly show all our small and big struggles that give life
an overall sense of struggle, a story zeroes in on a core of pain. Pain,
therefore, is good for a script. Pain is what a script needs. Pain is what a
script demands. The pain that Eva feels due to her mother’s neglect in Autumn Sonata is so deep and fierce that
just a mother and daughter going at each other verbally makes for a riveting
viewing experience. The pain of jealousy felt by Salieri in Amadeus is enough to power a play and a
film to success and glory. Michael Corleone being forced to join the family
business because of his father’s death leads to such anguish that we’re
mesmerized as we watch his intelligence and charisma find an outlet in ruthlessness
and extreme brutality. Malcolm Crowe’s pain at not being able to save his
patient resulting in his life and marriage coming apart makes him a compelling
protagonist. Alvy Singer’s pain at not being able to make his relationship
work. The little boy’s pain at losing his sister’s shoes in Children of Heaven. The pain that women
are going through to survive in the oppression of Iran in Jafar Panahi’s The Circle. I can go on…. No matter what
genre a writer is working in, the core power of the story emerges from the pain
or suffering that torment the protagonist or protagonists. If we can tap into this core it will give us
a whole universe, which is exactly what each story needs. To put it bluntly:
FIND THE PAIN!
The second aspect of the
seed is more tangible. What is the story really, concretely about? A famous
filmmaker, struggling to make a spectacular, big-budget film, escapes into
memory and fantasy as he deals with director’s block, a lack of inspiration, a
mistress and a wife, an edgy producer and a demanding star. (8 ½; 1963; directed by Federico Fellini;
written by Federico Fellini, Ennio Flaiano, Tullio Pinelli, Brunello Rondi)
Or, during World War II, a
cynical bar owner in Morocco comes face to face with the woman he loved, the
woman who betrayed him and made him a bitter man. She has a husband, a war
hero, in tow and they need to get out of Casablanca and the bar owner, who has
contacts in Morocco may be in a position to help. (Casablanca; 1942; directed by Michael Curtiz; written by Julius J.
Epstein, Philip G. Epstein, Howard Koch; based on the play ‘Everybody comes to
Rick’s’, by Murray Burnett, Joan Alison)
Or, a teenaged boy in Poland
falls deeply in love with a much older woman whom he watches from his apartment
through binoculars. The woman discovers him, leading to complications. (A Short Film about Love; 1988; directed
by Krzysztof Kieslowski; written by Krzysztof Kieslowski, Krzystof Piesiewicz)
Or, an egocentric weatherman
travels to a town to report on Groundhog Day. This is something he’s been doing
for years and is sick of. After finishing his report he finds himself trapped
in a time warp, reliving the same dreadful day again and again. (Groundhog Day; 1993; directed by Harold
Ramis; written by Danny Rubin, Harold Ramis)
Let’s look at each of the
above four plotlines and analyze their potential for creating a complete and
fulfilling viewing experience by a natural incorporation of varied sentiments.
8½:
While there’s no clear dominant sentiment here, except possibly the Comic, since
that is the tone of the film, 8½ is
perhaps the perfect concoction of all flavors, each one distinct, and yet each
one blended flawlessly into the whole. The erotic comes into play with: the
mistress; the beautiful leading lady whom the director’s mind insists on
transforming into his muse; Guido’s memories of Saraghina; and of course his
harem fantasy. Comic is the tone of the film. Pathetic is his actual condition,
as also that of his wife and mistress and others who come in contact with him.
The furious exists in his wife, his mistress, his producer, in himself, and
just about everybody. And yet Guido remains a heroic figure, crazy enough to
attempt an ambitious film without a script and without inspiration. The
ramifications of his audaciousness are terrifying, so is his imminent fate, as
he’s clearly going for broke. His life is full of the odious – his grotesque
sexual escapades with his tawdry mistress, as well as the surreal memories and
fantasies. In fact, in 8½, the erotic
and the odious are two sides of the same coin, as they so often are. Finally,
spectacle is an essential part of Fellini’s vision. It is not mere coincidence
that Guido is attempting to realize every director’s dream – a film that is
spectacular (Marvelous) and deeply personal at the same time. Something that
Fellini accomplishes in 8 ½,
spectacularly so. Fellini must have been familiar with the rasa theory!
Casablanca:
Clearly, the dominant emotion here is love. However, let’s look at what all the
plot line promises: since the situation is about betrayal in love, there is
bound to be sorrow; since she betrayed him and they are now face to face, there
is bound to be anger; since the protagonist has to engineer a daring escape,
heroism and fear are part of the package; since he is a bar owner, there is
scope for mirth as well as disgust; disgust in the hero is also directed
towards the woman as a result of the deep pain that he feels at the betrayal.
There seems to be no place for the Marvelous here but we have seen that the potential
mix is already rather wholesome.
A
Short Film about Love: Erotic is the dominant sentiment. With love
comes sorrow. With a boy spying come disgust and anger. Because of the element
of danger involved in spying, there is also scope for heroism and fear. The
basic situation itself has comic possibilities.
Groundhog
Day:
The dominant sentiment here is Comic. And because the protagonist finds himself
in an undesirable situation, there is sorrow. Heroism comes into play when the
protagonist needs to escape the situation. The situation itself is potentially
dangerous. Anger is the natural reaction of the protagonist and the magical
element provides the element of astonishment. Since the protagonist is an
egocentric and we’re dealing with a groundhog, disgust can hardly be avoided.
Love, of course, is crucial to his transformation into a better man. That seems
to cover everything! Is it surprising therefore that Groundhog Day is such a delightful viewing experience?
Admittedly, the plotlines of
several bad films will have the potential for all sentiments to play out.
Therefore, it is important that this potential is properly exploited at each of
the other three levels, like in the above four examples.
Level
2: Character
Stories are about people,
even when they are not, like in The Lion
King (the pain of seeing your father killed and being blamed for it) or Finding Nemo (the pain of losing your
child), which are about people in the guise of animals and fishes. The writer
endeavors to create a complete world in his story and this world is peopled by,
well, people. Obviously, we can’t have as many people or as many important
characters in a film as there are in our lives. And yet, it is important to
have a representation of characters that make it seem like the writer has a
world of people in the script. How does one do this? Let’s begin with the
protagonist.
The protagonist is whom the
film is about. A character whom we identify with, who takes us on this journey
through various sentiments, who becomes us in the story so that we soon find
ourselves rooting for him, even when he does things that we may not want him
to. Andy in The Shawshank Redemption
(1994; written and directed by Frank Darabont; based on Stephen King’s short
story ‘Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption’) becomes our guide through the
story, whose life we live vicariously, via the film. For Andy to be capable of
undertaking and eventually completing the journey that the story has envisaged
for him, he needs to have certain qualities. He must have the motivation to, at
first, survive and eventually, escape. These he gets from the injustice that’s
been done to him by his wife and by the system (his pain). He must have the
ability to outsmart the warden and Hadley, and he must have the ability to escape.
He must be educated and clever because that’s the only way he can outwit the
jail authorities as well as the other prisoners who are more powerful than him.
He must be compassionate so he is able to form bonds within the prison
community. He must be quiet and reclusive, because his eventual escape hinges
on keeping a secret for several years. So, even as the story determines the
character, the character in turn determines the story. Clearly, there cannot be
a rigid process to this. Character and plot determine each other in a way
that’s natural, even chaotic, and this is how it must be. Let’s continue with
Andy for a bit. We’ve seen his heroic qualities, but heroic qualities alone do
not a human being make. For him to be one of us, he must have weaknesses too.
That’s what will make him Everyman. Every protagonist is an Everyman, just like
every human being is. Each of us, in that sense, is unique and universal at the
same time. In fact, the more uniqueness we can discover in our characters, the
more universal they’ll seem. So, Andy suffers abuse in prison because it’s only
natural that he would – he cannot be strong enough to avoid that or he’ll start
alienating us. Andy’s wife was having an affair with another man, and one
wonders if that was so because of Andy’s inwardness, his inability to express
his love. The male perception of a man whose wife cheats on him (the cuckold)
is of a weak man, a not man-enough man, or, if you will, a flawed man.
Incorrect though that perception might be, it will still be entertained by the
majority of the audience, men as well as women. All these qualities contribute
towards making Andy a well-rounded character, with the motivation and ability
to convincingly fulfill the journey that the story has in store for him, and weak
or human enough to make that journey interesting. Here is a character that can
take us on a journey through the sentiments. But this isn’t enough. Other
characters too must inhabit the story, characters that not only serve the
purpose of the plot, but also make credible the world that the writer has
created. Let’s look at the other characters in The Shawshank Redemption.
There’s Red the narrator,
kind, practical and resourceful. Hadley the guard, violent, merciless, selfish.
Norton the warden, ruthless and corrupt. Bogs the rapist. Brooks, old, gentle,
fragile. Tommy is young and hopeful and honest. Finally, there’s Rita Hayworth
(and Marilyn and Raquel). And yes, Jake, the crow! That does seem to be a
diverse enough assortment of characters to give the sentiments an open playing
field and show their magic. A perfect cross-section in the world of Shawshank,
a world that emerged because the appropriate seed was planted. No wonder then,
that The Shawshank Redemption has
turned into one of the most-loved films of all time.
Level
3: Incident
A screenplay basically
comprises of a series of incidents strung together. These incidents, or
sequences if you like, may happen close to each other in time or as far apart
as the story demands. For a story to be told effectively, the appropriate
incidents need to be identified. It is in the choice of these incidents that a
potentially good screenplay can be ruined. The incidents must be such that they
have the potential to unfurl the plot, as well as contribute towards giving us
a life-experience. Of course, this can only happen if the right seed has been
chosen and appropriate characters enlisted to populate the story.
Let’s look at the incidents
that Satyajit Ray picked to tell the story of his masterpiece, Charulata (Charulata: The Lonely Wife;
1963; written and directed by Satyajit Ray; based on ‘The Broken Nest’, a
novella by Rabindranath Tagore). Visualize these incidents and try and identify
the sentiments that they evoke.
1.
The film begins with the ‘bored housewife’ sequence.
But just look at the moments Ray has chosen to convey her boredom and, more
importantly, the depth of her character. Charulata hums, smiles, pulls out a
book by Bankim Chandra, plays with an opera glass, running from window to
window to look at a plump man striding ahead with an umbrella in his hand. The
masterstroke comes when she looks at her husband, Bhupathi, through this opera
glass while he walks past her without noticing her, so engrossed is he with
himself. Later, she sits with Bhupathi while he eats (and she doesn’t) and
finds a cure for her loneliness: he’ll ask Charulata’s brother who’s coming to
work with Bhupathi, to bring his wife along. She also mentions Swarnalata, Tarak Nath Gangopadhyay’s
acclaimed novel, which Bhupathi, of course, has no interest in. Look at the
range of flavors that Ray has been able to capture in this very first sequence.
2.
Then comes the ‘grand’ arrival of Amol,
amidst storm and rain, while Charu is playing cards with her sister-in-law,
Manda. We have also met Charu’s brother by now. He’s working with Bhupathi as
manager and speaks of a horse going wild, among other things. Look at the
imagery that’s being evoked. Not to mention the kaleidoscope that Manda is
looking through, the view from which is the first shot of the sequence.
3.
Then, Charu is in Amol’s room, singing. A hot
samosa (a popular Indian snack)
scalds his tongue. His shirt is torn and Charu makes him take it off so she can
mend it.
4.
Then there’s a debate between Amol and
Bhupathi. While Amol plays the piano. The debate is settled with an
arm-wrestling contest between the two! A contest that Bhupathi wins.
5.
The Amol-Charu relationship progresses over
literary discussions that induce snores from Manda. This, the central
relationship of the film, progresses further, in a garden, with Charu on a
swing, singing with abandon. She makes for Amol a notebook, he shakes hands
with her and they strike a ‘deal’ that his writing is to stay between them.
When Amol thanks her for the notebook, Charu sings ‘thank you, thank you’.
Charu is clearly getting attracted to Amol and seems confused by this, and hurt
when he tells her that he’s spending time with her at Bhupathi’s instance.
6.
Much to Charu’s dismay, Bhupathi mentions a
marriage proposal to Amol. He rejects it and Charu is inexplicably pleased.
7.
Charu’s brother Uma says ominous things to
his wife Manda, including – can you lie for me?
8.
Amol sings and dances as a happy Charu
watches. Until, she learns of his essay’s publication in a periodical. She’s
livid at the ‘betrayal’, and locks herself in, crying. Bhupathi happens to
arrive at this inopportune moment and Charu picks up a broom and pretends she’s
hunting down a cockroach.
9.
Charu writes with determination and anger and
gets published in an even more prestigious magazine. She beats Amol over the
head with this magazine, then throws away the paan that Manda made for Amol and
makes one for him herself, asserting her rights over him. She does all this
with defiance, confidence and her body language has a childish heroic quality
that is disconcerting and affecting at the same time. She gives Amol a pair of
embroidered slippers. Now she’s even, at peace. Amol can see something’s come
over her. He praises her writing and she falls deeper and deeper in love,
finally rushing to him and breaking down on his chest, leaving him utterly
bewildered and shaken. This sequence itself is a riotous mix of flavors.
10.
Bhupathi and his friends discuss politics and
listen to a live music performance. Uma empties Bhupathi’s safe and absconds.
Charu insists that Amol stay on to help Bhupathi. Amol is confused, disturbed.
A desperate Charu tries to make Amol promise that he will not go away.
Recklessly, she clings to him, physically. Amol knows things have gone too far.
11.
Bhupathi tells Amol about the betrayal,
leaving Amol feeling guilty.
12.
Amol leaves, suitcase in hand. There is a
finality with which he leaves, leaving a letter rather than saying goodbye personally.
13.
Charu is devastated and furious. She
immediately orders the servant to ‘remove his (Amol’s) bedding’ from Amol’s
room.
14.
The beach. Bhupathi and Charu are on holiday.
Charu proposes a new paper, in which Bhupathi will deal with politics while
Charu will look after the ‘other’ stuff. He extends his hand to help her up.
She takes it.
15.
Back home, Charu is unable to contain herself
when faced with the finality of Amol’s departure. Believing she is alone in her
room, she breaks down on the bed and wails: ‘why did you go away’. Bhupathi has
heard, and knows. She hears him leave and knows that he knows.
16.
Bhupathi is deeply hurt as he travels in his
coach (we don’t see the ‘wild’ horse that pulls the coach). A heroic Charu
tears up Amol’s letter, while in the coach, Bhupathi looks at the handkerchief
embroidered with his initial by Charu.
17.
When Bhupathi returns home, Charu extends her
hand to him. He responds by extending his. But the frame freezes before their
hands can touch.
It speaks of Ray’s expertise
as a filmmaker that he manages to orchestrate this vigorous intermingling of
sentiments into a film that is as precise as it is fulfilling. All the rasas are evoked with a confidence
bordering on audaciousness. (In fact, Ray acknowledged the importance of rasa, which he described as ‘the
interplay of moods as expressed by various characters in a work of art’*.)
Level
4: Scene
This may well be the most
important level, since, of the 4 levels, this is the most tangible. It is the scene that we see performed, with
action and dialogue. It is the scene that our immediate response is to, and our
relationship with a film forged via. It is only in the scene that we experience
the sentiments directly, by a naked contact with the film. Our sensory response
to a film is really to a scene. If the first 3 levels are in place, the scene
can become the difference between a good and a great script. In fact, several
films become popular primarily on the strength of their scenes, because even
when the story and characters are less than compelling, absorbing scenes can
give the viewer an entertaining enough experience. With the first 3 levels in
place, a brilliant script can use the scene to great effect. Let’s look at the
first sequence – the entire wedding sequence – from The Godfather (1972; directed by Francis Ford Coppola; written by
Mario Puzo, Francis Ford Coppola; based on the novel, ‘The Godfather’, by Mario
Puzo).
The first scene itself seems
almost consciously to be following the tenets of the rasa theory, in the way the sentiments are evoked. The erotic
sentiment is evoked via Bonasera’s description of his daughter’s experience
with her boyfriend, where he tried to take advantage of her. (Yes, the image is
not a pleasant one, but unfortunately, even rape holds an erotic fascination
for human beings.) Also evoking the
erotic is Don Corleone’s reference to his daughter’s wedding. The comic
sentiment is evoked by the way Don Corleone toys with Bonasera, finally
bullying him into accepting Don Corleone as godfather. The pathetic sentiment
is evoked via the experience of Bonasera’s daughter. The furious sentiment via
Bonasera’s anger, as well Corleone’s at what he perceives as Bonasera’s
insults. There’s the heroic sentiment in Corleone’s love for justice, albeit of
a primitive kind. His persona, emphasized by the respect that he is shown by
other men in the room, too drips heroism. Corleone’s power and manner evoke
terror and the act of Bonasera’s daughter’s assaulters is odious. Other than
astonishment, all the other seven sentiments are evoked in the first scene
itself! Now let’s look at the rest of the twenty-six minute sequence,
sentiment-wise.
Erotic: The conversation
between Michael and Kay; Sonny and his girlfriend making out against a door;
the wedding itself.
Comic: The mirth of the
wedding; Johnny Fontane’s song; Luca Brasi and his fumbling dialogue with Don
Corleone.
Pathetic: Sonny’s wife’s
sorrow; Kay’s situation on discovering Michael’s family; Johnny’s situation
vis-à-vis his sinking career.
Furious: Sonny and the FBI;
Sonny and the photographer; Don’s reaction to Johnny’s situation.
Heroic: Michael’s uniform;
Don’s dispensing of justice; Michael telling Kay that he is not like his
family; Michael pulling Kay into the photograph.
Terrifying: Don’s power as a
criminal who controls judges and politicians; the realization that a criminal
can be so powerful, charismatic, and ‘respectable’.
Odious: Sonny thrusting in a
vulgar manner, as he has sex with a woman against a door; vulgar dancing and
drinking; Michael’s story about brains on a contract and the offer that cannot
be refused.
Marvellous: The astonishing
cake and the general spectacle of the wedding.
As is obvious from the
above, the sentiments have been given a glorious opportunity for display by a
seed (a combination of the pain of a man forced by circumstances into joining
the mafia and the saga of a powerful criminal family) that has given rise to a
world peopled by varied and interesting characters. Again, is it surprising
that The Godfather continues to be a
thoroughly satisfying viewing experience?
Conclusion
So then, is it possible to
actually apply the rasa theory and
make our screenplays richer? Perhaps not
in a direct, methodical way. But it might help to look at stories from the
perspective of the rasa theory. That
life is, at all times, a bundle of varied sentiments, even though we may be
experiencing a certain dominant sentiment at a given time. What is liberating,
however, is that there is no formula to doing this and every story must be
allowed to guide its writer towards discovering its unique combination of the
sentiments or flavors.
Finally, to quote from the Natyashastra:
Brahma,
the Creator: I
have created the ‘Natyashastra’ to show all actions of both gods and men. In it
there is sometimes reference to duty, sometimes to sport, sometimes to polity,
sometimes to money, sometimes to peace. Sometimes laughter is found in it,
sometimes fighting, sometimes lovemaking, sometimes killing. It chastises those
that are ill-bred or unruly, gives courage to cowards, energy to the heroic,
enlightens men of poor intellect, and gives wisdom to the learned. It gives
firmness to those afflicted with sorrow and brings composure to the agitated. It
is a representation of actions and conduct of people, which is rich in various
emotions and which depicts various situations. It relates to actions of men
good, bad and indifferent, and will give courage, amusement and happiness as
well as counsel to them all. There is no wise maxim, no learning, no art, no
craft, no device, no action that is not found in it.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
My understanding of the Natyashastra is based upon two English
translations of the text: one by Manmohan Ghosh, and the other by Adya
Rangacharya.
*Revisiting
Satyajit Ray: An Interview with a Cinema Master, Bright Lights Film Journal.
Copyright
2012 Ashwini Malik
About the author: Ashwini Malik is
a Mumbai-based independent filmmaker, screenwriter, screenwriting teacher and
script consultant. Born in 1969, Ashwini obtained a bachelor’s degree in
English Literature from Delhi University and then went to India’s premier film
school, Film & Television Institute of India (FTII) to study Film
Direction. His graduation film, The
Waiter in Slow Motion, was in official competition at the prestigious
Clermont-Ferrand International Short Film Festival 1995. Ashwini began his
career in television and went on to write, direct and produce a number of
fiction and non-fiction shows. In 2002, he directed his first feature film, Clever & Lonely. Since 2004, Ashwini
has also been involved in teaching Screenwriting. He has taught at his alma
mater FTII, and currently teaches at Whistling Woods International, Mumbai. He also mentors regularly at workshops in India and abroad.
