Sharmila Tagore on Satyajit Ray’s ‘Nayak’, re-released in theatres

Satyajit Ray’s 1966 film Nayak is about a superstar taking a train to collect a National Award. On his way, this star—played by matinee colossus Uttam Kumar—meets existential angst, admiring fans, and a journalist who doesn’t trust him, on or off screen. Sharmila Tagore’s Aditi—a journalist with a pen wedged in her blouse like a dagger in a scabbard—refuses to fawn. They talk on the train, her scepticism clashing against his confessions in a carriage thick with rings of cigarette smoke and ghosts, of past roles and past lives.

A remastered version of Nayak has been re-released across Indian theatres on 21 February, and this version can be streamed on The Criterion Channel. The film feels both timeless and strikingly modern—the opening credits pull out from the back of the hero’s head, for starters—and Nayak, along with Shyam Benegal’s Bhumika, deconstructs movie stardom like few films can. I spoke with Tagore about making this film, and about her combative and intelligent character.

Also read: 100 reasons to love Ray: His bag of tricks

“Everyone on the train is affected by the stardom of the hero,” says Tagore, herself a rare star who was massive in Hindi cinema at the same time as she was thoughtful in Ray’s films. “They’re a little conscious that here’s a superstar. Except a young girl who isn’t too well and is lying down. Even the character I play, I’m also affected by his stardom, because when it comes to people who are very famous, stars… I’m contemptuous as a journalist. As you are,” she laughs. “‘These people are not really good actors,’ you think. You’re a little judgemental.”

“First, she says I don’t want to interview him. She starts with an attitude. When he talks to her, she realises that he has a conscience, and she begins to feel for him. After the interview, she tears up the notes she’s taken. He’s surprised. He asks how she’ll manage to remember. She replies that she’ll keep it all in her head. Mone rekhe debo.”

It is, indeed, a film to remember. In one essay Ray—whose preferred actor was Soumitra Chatterjee—explained the importance of casting Uttam Kumar. He pointed to a moment where the star and the journalist are in conversation and an admirer comes up for an autograph. The pen doesn’t work. Without taking his eyes off Tagore, Kumar dips the pen in the glass of water in front of him and signs it. Ray said he could never have scripted that superstar flourish.

What he did script, however, was Aditi’s pen iconically tucked into her blouse. “That was all Manik Da,” Tagore says, referring to her frequent collaborator by nickname. “I just asked him if my character is long-sighted or short-sighted, and he was very amused with the idea. “Oh, you’ve started thinking about your roles now.” He asked me to decide, but by the time we were shooting, I completely forgot whether I was meant to be long-sighted or short-sighted.”

“Look at what (cinematographer) Subrata Mitra did,” she marvels, “The back projection was flawless because Subrata had one hand holding the train compartment and the other, his camera. That was the dedication. The crowds that gather are in the bright sun, and we are in a comparatively low-light area inside the compartment. It’s a black and white film, and see how he managed balancing the light difference.” She gushes on about the replica carriage made by the great production designer Bansi Chandragupta, and laments how Ray had to make do with lesser resources. “He didn’t have the budget of (Akira) Kurosawa, he didn’t have the budget of (Ingmar) Bergman. Yet he competed with them in international forums and won awards. That’s remarkable.”

“During Nayak, I remember him at lunch break, having fried fish and a bhaand of yogurt. And he would chew on his handkerchief. He wouldn’t go out or mingle. I suppose he was thinking about work, or relaxing in his own fashion.” Tagore details how Ray worked in almost every cinematic department—from camera to music, wardrobe to sets, posters to titles—but had never acted. “And here I was privileged to see him acting out that last scene where Uttam’s character says ‘Ask that girl from the chair-car to come and see me.’ He’s inebriated, and the compartment door is open, and you can see the railway track passing. And I come. And then he speaks. That’s a beautiful monologue.”

“Uttam Babu delivered it, then Manik Da read it out. Once. Uttam got it: the timing, where he should stress the words, and it was perfect. I was standing with my back to the camera, and listening. It was just a beautiful learning. After that, I believe that Uttam Babu slightly tweaked his acting. He was a brilliant actor, that’s why he was selected, but he just tweaked it a little bit, and just made his pauses more perfect, you know.”

Ray was different with different actors. “With Robi Da (the incredible, irrepressible Robi Ghosh), he allowed him to do whatever he wanted, he was improvising right left and centre. But with Soumitra in Aranyer Din Ratri, he was very particular: where he should place his hand and how much he should tilt his head. I don’t remember him ever over-instructing me.”

For a film about stardom, Nayak has a surprising amount of empathy. “Precisely,” Tagore agrees. “It’s quite non-judgemental as opposed to Seemabaddha, where the character has lost his conscience. Considering Manik Da comes from such a different world, and Uttam Babu was a wonderful actor, but was embedded in commercial cinema. Yet Manik Da, while being criticised by the commercial cinema, he didn’t criticise the commercial world.” The director of Nayak was anything but short-sighted. The thick eyeglasses were simply a prop.

Raja Sen is a screenwriter and critic. He has co-written Chup, a film about killing critics, and is now creating an absurd comedy series. He posts @rajasen.

Also read: 100 reasons to love Ray: Sharmila Tagore remembers