Nababarsha Special

	Silver lining of the silver screen Tareque Masud ....................................................... OLd cinema is dead -- long live cinema! May be the first and foremost reason to be optimistic about our filmdom is the sheer fact that the existing structure of our film industry is on the verge of collapse! Hopefully a phoenix will rise from of the ashes of the ruins. So-called "commercial" films are no longer commercially viable. People cannot be fooled anymore with old wine in a new bottle. Even the rickshaw-puller audiences have stopped going to the cinema halls. As a result of this situation, approximately 80% of the 80 or so films made per year in FDC fail to recover their investment. The only reason why so many films are still made every year is due to the unofficial government subsidy of the film industry, in the form of corruption. But the political economy behind this false facade cannot be sustained for long. Not only is the "protected" industry decaying from within, it is also facing serious challenges from without. On one hand, the "sky culture" of satellite television, with its increasingly wider reach, is tapping into the traditional audience reservoirs of the industry. On the other, there are challenges posed by private, independent initiatives that are giving audiences new and better alternatives at the cinema halls. But still there are several encouraging signs of a potential rejuvenation of cinema. The small screen gets bigger One of the most striking trends of recent years has been the initiative of private television channels in producing films. Almost a dozen films have already been made by a single private channel in the last year; dozens more are on the way. In effect, an alternative film industry is already being established. In the process, many older generation filmmakers, who had become inactive out of frustration or fatigue, have been brought back into the fold. At the same time, some of the younger, more competent makers, who have cut their cinematic teeth while making video-format dramas for television, are being given an opportunity to make big-screen productions. In other countries, television has a proud history of fostering better cinema by taking on the mantle of producer. German television gave birth to a world-renowned movement in the 1960's, by promoting such filmmakers as Werner Herzog, Fassbinder, Wim Wenders and others. Canal Plus in France and Channel Four in the UK played critical roles in fostering new talent by commissioning and co-producing films. But before we become overly optimistic about the potential role of private television in Bangladesh, a few notes of caution. Firstly, simply exposing a story on celluloid does not make it cinema. Filmmakers should be given proper budgets and preparation time to make their films, or they will run the risk of simply producing TV serials and soaps for the big screen. Also there should be a more rigorous process of selection for productions, in order to ensure that television-produced films don't become a B-team of FDC style melodramas. Enterprising entrepreneurs While the once-upon-a-time traditional producers of 'better' cinema are still looking towards Kolkata, a znew encouraging sign is the growing interest on the part of entrepreneurs and businesses to become financially involved in independent cinema. Some leading industrialists, such as Anjan Chowdhury, have become directly involved as producers, most notably in the case of the acclaimed film Lal Shalu. There are also indirect forms of involvement, such as corporate advertising sponsorship for television broadcasts of independent films. Of course entrepreneurs look for returns, and we should be careful that this growing interest is not nipped in the bud. New generation with fresh zeal Meanwhile, a new generation is coming up that will hopefully spawn bright talents in the field of cinema. Technology is on their side: even a decade ago, the means of production were expensive and rare, and young people drawn to filmmaking had limited opportunities to hone their craft. But today, with the advent of inexpensive and flexible digital format cameras and cheap editing software packages for the PC, a young person eager to try their hand at filmmaking can easily experiment. The new computer-savvy generation is free from the analog hang-ups of their seniors, and as it has in other countries, in Bangladesh as well the scene is ripe for digital filmmaking to take hold. Cineplex-cum-shopping complex Alongside the positive developments in financing and technology of film production, are equally important changes in the exhibition scenario. After decades of decline and decay of the nation's cinema halls, paralleling the decline of the industry, in the past couple of years there have been some important encouraging developments. Firstly, as a consequence of the increasing output of independent films, a few traditional venues, notably Balaka, have been able to successfully re-establish themselves for middle-class audiences. Secondly, the shopping complex-cum-cineplex approach to exhibition, which has been so successful in other countries, has finally found a foothold here with the launching of Star Cineplex at Bashundhara. Hopefully this is just the beginning of a continuing trend. As there seems no end to the number of shopping complexes catering to the consumer demands of an omnivorous and expanding middle class, likewise more thought should be given to the entertainment hunger of this captive audience. Expanding audiences Although still limited to a few venues in the capital city, there has been a growing trend of long-absent audiences returning to the traditional cradle of entertainment, the cinema hall. A series of successful releases of independent films have brought back the former core of cinema patrons, women and families, to theatres after a long hiatus of decades. As a result theatres have been inspired to renovate their premises to make them more attractive to this upscale audience. But it is not only the local audience which is expanding; in recent years a few films have also been able to reach out to the wider world, tapping into the niche market for 'arthouse' films in Europe and North America. With a view of this wider cross-border market in mind, producers can also increase the commercial viability of their investments, as Iranian cinema has so successfully demonstrated. State support? It is no accident that none of the encouraging signs I have outlined above come from government quarters. In many countries filmmakers look to the government to provide incentives and support for better cinema. But in Bangladesh, intervention and patronization from the government side has more often than not been the kiss of death. The FDC and the National Archives are prime examples. Whenever any governments has actively engaged in promoting cinema and building institutions, disaster has ensued, leading to the destruction of the very institutions they intended to nurture. It is nothing inherent to the nature of public subsidies per se, as the successful examples of Iran, France, and even to some extent India can attest; it is rather a specific problem of the incompetence of state machinery in Bangladesh. In this case, the best the government can do is move out of the way. Whatever prestige and honour cinema has brought to the nation in recent years is in spite of the adversity and obstacles created by the bureaucratic machinery of the state. But maybe in a paradoxical way it is this very adversity that inspires and motivates filmmakers, giving them more drive and determination to succeed. Words, melodies and moments Subrata Augustine Gomes ...................................................... If I could sing, I probably would not care to write. I will never forgive my parents for not finding me an ustad, nor will I excuse Nature for not granting me a voice like that of Faiyaz Khan. Music remains my lifelong passion. I cannot remember a single hour in my life when I have not hummed a note or two. It is the music in poetry, or any other genre of literature for that matter, that drew me into writing in the first place. But alas, the only music I hear in contemporary poetry is cacophony. How did it all start? Although it is not easy to offer a straight-forward answer, it must have had a great deal to do with my childhood reading, which was, initially, hardly any different from any other of my schoolmates'. It was the same Rabindranath (Phalgune bikashita kanchan phul), the same Satyen Datta (Chhipkhan tin dnar), the same Sukumar Ray (Sholo anai michhe), Nazrul (Jhinge phul), Jasim ud-Din (Rakhal chhele), the same whole lot. I still remember (for obvious reasons) a verse I came across during my early childhood years. I find it enchanting even to this day, it isPipra pipra koyta dim. My ill health can be spotted as one of the reasons I took up the pen when none of my early childhood friends did. This prevented me from playing cricket, making my second passion unavailable to me. Another cause can be attributed to my love for reading beyond the textbooks. My parents had a modest collection of books and most of my time at home would be occupied by Rabindranath, Sharatchandra, Sukanta, Mujtaba Ali, even Bankim and Michael, along with a decent array of Russian books in translation, which were probably distributed free of cost then. I did not come across a single writer worth mentioning before my admission into Dhaka University. Three of my other classmates also wrote, and we exchanged opinions and read each other's work. They were Syed Tarik (a person I have always envied and respected as a poet and loved and hated as a friend), Monirul Alam (the one and only guide and mentor I have had in my life), and Abu Sayeed Obaidullah (an Abul Hassan fanatic). Of course the teachers were there as well, most of them were writers too, and a few senior students who wrote (especially Azfar Hussain). We were probably in the third year when Ashraf Sir (Khondkar Ashraf Hussain) brought out his renowned little magazine, Ekabingsha, and in one of its subsequent issues (probably the second) he printed my poems, which, save for a few publications in the department and some community journals, was my real entry into the printed world. One day Tarik took me to Bishwa Sahitya Kendra and we found the whole group in the hall room, discussing, somewhat violently, their forthcoming issue, or probably its cover design. They hardly noticed me then (and will probably not remember this chance meeting now), but I was never to forget this event. There were Tapan Barua, the venerable or rather formidable looking editor; Sajjad Sharif, the Arjuna of the group; Shantanu Choudhury, an unusually soft-spoken, gentlemanly person; and Shoeb Shadab, with his super-assertive, hooligan-like features; and also Farid Kabir, Sajjad's elder brother, a poet Tarik had ranked very highly among the young writers. Needless to say, I didn't receive a very hearty reception from the group. When Tarik showed one of my essays to Sajjad, which had recently been published in a department journal, he deprecated my style as being 'unnecessarily apologetic'. I felt a bit dejected then, but somehow I had a feeling that one day I would be accepted by this blithe bunch as my thoughts and expertise were quite similar to theirs. I only needed to write something good enough to catch their eyes and get published more often. But it was not to be for a few more years yet. Very many a splendid thing was to take place in the meantime. Along came 'ekushe boimela', 1990. Both Prasun, and my first volume of poems were published amid exasperation and agony. The recognition I had been pining for came in such an overwhelming fashion that I was totally dumbfounded for a while. Sajjad was the first to come forward to congratulate me, who not only bought my book without being asked, but also made others do so. Sajjad was followed by Bratya Raisu, Farid Kabir, and Masud Khan and many others. I started to hang around in Shahbagh from then on (there was no Aziz Market at that time), mainly round Sylvana and Senorita restaurants and the lawn inside PG Hospital primarily for Vishnu's company and secondarily for my newly acquainted little-mag friends. It was such a wondrous time! In the dimly lit surrealist environs of Shahbag, one would feel he was in the subconscious of Demogorgon! But the atmosphere was anything but morbid. In spite of the drugs and all that, there were regular debates on art, on science, on philosophy, on... everything and anything. It was as if a bunch of young people had just been born in a magical world full of signs and symbols, which they marvelled at, and ventured into deciphering in endless playfulness. And there were the songs. Not only was Shahbag honoured by the angelic voice of Vishnu, it had also to suffer from a few of the less melodious ones such as mine. So many an ethereal face swam across that embalmed darkness, so many a dream! But what was it that this shadowy horde did or wanted to do? What point did they make? I have been asked this question oftentimes. And again, I don't have a very precise answer to this. It was a time very much similar to that of the Elizabethan England, when a group of young people suddenly woke up from the slumber of complacence and sought to do something really new, something worthwhile to live and die for. All that these fellows lacked was a Shakespeare. And as there was no turning back to the middle ages after the Elizabethan's, so the day of worthless popular poetry was gone forever after the eighties. Subsequent poetry has its limitations, and that's due mainly to the fact that the poets of the nineties and later are much less well-equipped for, and serious about, their craft. But they have followed the eighties poets in not opting for the popular crap of the sixties and seventies. Bangla literature has well and truly changed for the better, and it is all due to the seeming madness of these too choosy, too fussy, too unprolific, and too unselfish poets and writers of the eighties. The use of the vernacular in writing, and an expression of disrespect for the so-called standard dialect -- the all pervasive "chalita Bangla" marked a turning point in the history of Bangla literature. This too, had taken off in the eighties, and writers like Bratya Raisu had a hand in its inception. Many of the writers of the nineties are now treading this path with such determination that it seems it will not be long before the standard dialect will have either to accommodate the vernacular to such an extent that it will lose most of its characteristics, or give way to a completely new standard dialect found on the various local dialects across Bangladesh and West Bengal. Our written language has never been faced with such a rapid and thorough metamorphosis, and one can hardly emphasise more the need for being extremely cautious in handling this. The new writers ought to keep in mind that only when another standard dialect is ready to use so that they can do away with the existing one, or else we shall have either no written language at all or gobbledygook for a language, which will be even worse. If all goes well, however, we the Bangladeshis are likely to get hold of a lingua franca we can call our own. We have been writing in a borrowed language for too many a century now. Jago, Bangalee, jago! Speak and write in your own native tongue. And only that way you can ever speak the truth.

Silver lining of the silver screen

Tareque Masud
.......................................................

OLd cinema is dead -- long live cinema! May be the first and foremost reason to be optimistic about our filmdom is the sheer fact that the existing structure of our film industry is on the verge of collapse! Hopefully a phoenix will rise from of the ashes of the ruins. So-called "commercial" films are no longer commercially viable. People cannot be fooled anymore with old wine in a new bottle. Even the rickshaw-puller audiences have stopped going to the cinema halls. As a result of this situation, approximately 80% of the 80 or so films made per year in FDC fail to recover their investment. The only reason why so many films are still made every year is due to the unofficial government subsidy of the film industry, in the form of corruption. But the political economy behind this false facade cannot be sustained for long.

Not only is the "protected" industry decaying from within, it is also facing serious challenges from without. On one hand, the "sky culture" of satellite television, with its increasingly wider reach, is tapping into the traditional audience reservoirs of the industry. On the other, there are challenges posed by private, independent initiatives that are giving audiences new and better alternatives at the cinema halls. But still there are several encouraging signs of a potential rejuvenation of cinema.

The small screen gets bigger
One of the most striking trends of recent years has been the initiative of private television channels in producing films. Almost a dozen films have already been made by a single private channel in the last year; dozens more are on the way. In effect, an alternative film industry is already being established. In the process, many older generation filmmakers, who had become inactive out of frustration or fatigue, have been brought back into the fold. At the same time, some of the younger, more competent makers, who have cut their cinematic teeth while making video-format dramas for television, are being given an opportunity to make big-screen productions.

In other countries, television has a proud history of fostering better cinema by taking on the mantle of producer. German television gave birth to a world-renowned movement in the 1960's, by promoting such filmmakers as Werner Herzog, Fassbinder, Wim Wenders and others. Canal Plus in France and Channel Four in the UK played critical roles in fostering new talent by commissioning and co-producing films. But before we become overly optimistic about the potential role of private television in Bangladesh, a few notes of caution.

Firstly, simply exposing a story on celluloid does not make it cinema. Filmmakers should be given proper budgets and preparation time to make their films, or they will run the risk of simply producing TV serials and soaps for the big screen. Also there should be a more rigorous process of selection for productions, in order to ensure that television-produced films don't become a B-team of FDC style melodramas.

Enterprising entrepreneurs
While the once-upon-a-time traditional producers of 'better' cinema are still looking towards Kolkata, a znew encouraging sign is the growing interest on the part of entrepreneurs and businesses to become financially involved in independent cinema. Some leading industrialists, such as Anjan Chowdhury, have become directly involved as producers, most notably in the case of the acclaimed film Lal Shalu. There are also indirect forms of involvement, such as corporate advertising sponsorship for television broadcasts of independent films. Of course entrepreneurs look for returns, and we should be careful that this growing interest is not nipped in the bud.

New generation with fresh zeal
Meanwhile, a new generation is coming up that will hopefully spawn bright talents in the field of cinema. Technology is on their side: even a decade ago, the means of production were expensive and rare, and young people drawn to filmmaking had limited opportunities to hone their craft. But today, with the advent of inexpensive and flexible digital format cameras and cheap editing software packages for the PC, a young person eager to try their hand at filmmaking can easily experiment. The new computer-savvy generation is free from the analog hang-ups of their seniors, and as it has in other countries, in Bangladesh as well the scene is ripe for digital filmmaking to take hold.

Cineplex-cum-shopping complex
Alongside the positive developments in financing and technology of film production, are equally important changes in the exhibition scenario. After decades of decline and decay of the nation's cinema halls, paralleling the decline of the industry, in the past couple of years there have been some important encouraging developments. Firstly, as a consequence of the increasing output of independent films, a few traditional venues, notably Balaka, have been able to successfully re-establish themselves for middle-class audiences.

Secondly, the shopping complex-cum-cineplex approach to exhibition, which has been so successful in other countries, has finally found a foothold here with the launching of Star Cineplex at Bashundhara. Hopefully this is just the beginning of a continuing trend. As there seems no end to the number of shopping complexes catering to the consumer demands of an omnivorous and expanding middle class, likewise more thought should be given to the entertainment hunger of this captive audience.

Expanding audiences
Although still limited to a few venues in the capital city, there has been a growing trend of long-absent audiences returning to the traditional cradle of entertainment, the cinema hall. A series of successful releases of independent films have brought back the former core of cinema patrons, women and families, to theatres after a long hiatus of decades. As a result theatres have been inspired to renovate their premises to make them more attractive to this upscale audience. But it is not only the local audience which is expanding; in recent years a few films have also been able to reach out to the wider world, tapping into the niche market for 'arthouse' films in Europe and North America. With a view of this wider cross-border market in mind, producers can also increase the commercial viability of their investments, as Iranian cinema has so successfully demonstrated.

State support?
It is no accident that none of the encouraging signs I have outlined above come from government quarters. In many countries filmmakers look to the government to provide incentives and support for better cinema. But in Bangladesh, intervention and patronization from the government side has more often than not been the kiss of death. The FDC and the National Archives are prime examples. Whenever any governments has actively engaged in promoting cinema and building institutions, disaster has ensued, leading to the destruction of the very institutions they intended to nurture.

It is nothing inherent to the nature of public subsidies per se, as the successful examples of Iran, France, and even to some extent India can attest; it is rather a specific problem of the incompetence of state machinery in Bangladesh. In this case, the best the government can do is move out of the way.

Whatever prestige and honour cinema has brought to the nation in recent years is in spite of the adversity and obstacles created by the bureaucratic machinery of the state. But maybe in a paradoxical way it is this very adversity that inspires and motivates filmmakers, giving them more drive and determination to succeed.

Words, melodies and moments

Subrata Augustine Gomes
......................................................

If I could sing, I probably would not care to write. I will never forgive my parents for not finding me an ustad, nor will I excuse Nature for not granting me a voice like that of Faiyaz Khan. Music remains my lifelong passion. I cannot remember a single hour in my life when I have not hummed a note or two.

It is the music in poetry, or any other genre of literature for that matter, that drew me into writing in the first place. But alas, the only music I hear in contemporary poetry is cacophony.

How did it all start? Although it is not easy to offer a straight-forward answer, it must have had a great deal to do with my childhood reading, which was, initially, hardly any different from any other of my schoolmates'. It was the same Rabindranath (Phalgune bikashita kanchan phul), the same Satyen Datta (Chhipkhan tin dnar), the same Sukumar Ray (Sholo anai michhe), Nazrul (Jhinge phul), Jasim ud-Din (Rakhal chhele), the same whole lot. I still remember (for obvious reasons) a verse I came across during my early childhood years. I find it enchanting even to this day, it isPipra pipra koyta dim.

My ill health can be spotted as one of the reasons I took up the pen when none of my early childhood friends did. This prevented me from playing cricket, making my second passion unavailable to me. Another cause can be attributed to my love for reading beyond the textbooks. My parents had a modest collection of books and most of my time at home would be occupied by Rabindranath, Sharatchandra, Sukanta, Mujtaba Ali, even Bankim and Michael, along with a decent array of Russian books in translation, which were probably distributed free of cost then.

I did not come across a single writer worth mentioning before my admission into Dhaka University. Three of my other classmates also wrote, and we exchanged opinions and read each other's work. They were Syed Tarik (a person I have always envied and respected as a poet and loved and hated as a friend), Monirul Alam (the one and only guide and mentor I have had in my life), and Abu Sayeed Obaidullah (an Abul Hassan fanatic). Of course the teachers were there as well, most of them were writers too, and a few senior students who wrote (especially Azfar Hussain).

We were probably in the third year when Ashraf Sir (Khondkar Ashraf Hussain) brought out his renowned little magazine, Ekabingsha, and in one of its subsequent issues (probably the second) he printed my poems, which, save for a few publications in the department and some community journals, was my real entry into the printed world.

One day Tarik took me to Bishwa Sahitya Kendra and we found the whole group in the hall room, discussing, somewhat violently, their forthcoming issue, or probably its cover design. They hardly noticed me then (and will probably not remember this chance meeting now), but I was never to forget this event. There were Tapan Barua, the venerable or rather formidable looking editor; Sajjad Sharif, the Arjuna of the group; Shantanu Choudhury, an unusually soft-spoken, gentlemanly person; and Shoeb Shadab, with his super-assertive, hooligan-like features; and also Farid Kabir, Sajjad's elder brother, a poet Tarik had ranked very highly among the young writers.

Needless to say, I didn't receive a very hearty reception from the group. When Tarik showed one of my essays to Sajjad, which had recently been published in a department journal, he deprecated my style as being 'unnecessarily apologetic'. I felt a bit dejected then, but somehow I had a feeling that one day I would be accepted by this blithe bunch as my thoughts and expertise were quite similar to theirs. I only needed to write something good enough to catch their eyes and get published more often.

But it was not to be for a few more years yet. Very many a splendid thing was to take place in the meantime.

Along came 'ekushe boimela', 1990. Both Prasun, and my first volume of poems were published amid exasperation and agony. The recognition I had been pining for came in such an overwhelming fashion that I was totally dumbfounded for a while. Sajjad was the first to come forward to congratulate me, who not only bought my book without being asked, but also made others do so. Sajjad was followed by Bratya Raisu, Farid Kabir, and Masud Khan and many others.

I started to hang around in Shahbagh from then on (there was no Aziz Market at that time), mainly round Sylvana and Senorita restaurants and the lawn inside PG Hospital primarily for Vishnu's company and secondarily for my newly acquainted little-mag friends.

It was such a wondrous time! In the dimly lit surrealist environs of Shahbag, one would feel he was in the subconscious of Demogorgon! But the atmosphere was anything but morbid. In spite of the drugs and all that, there were regular debates on art, on science, on philosophy, on... everything and anything. It was as if a bunch of young people had just been born in a magical world full of signs and symbols, which they marvelled at, and ventured into deciphering in endless playfulness.

And there were the songs. Not only was Shahbag honoured by the angelic voice of Vishnu, it had also to suffer from a few of the less melodious ones such as mine. So many an ethereal face swam across that embalmed darkness, so many a dream!

But what was it that this shadowy horde did or wanted to do? What point did they make? I have been asked this question oftentimes. And again, I don't have a very precise answer to this. It was a time very much similar to that of the Elizabethan England, when a group of young people suddenly woke up from the slumber of complacence and sought to do something really new, something worthwhile to live and die for. All that these fellows lacked was a Shakespeare. And as there was no turning back to the middle ages after the Elizabethan's, so the day of worthless popular poetry was gone forever after the eighties. Subsequent poetry has its limitations, and that's due mainly to the fact that the poets of the nineties and later are much less well-equipped for, and serious about, their craft. But they have followed the eighties poets in not opting for the popular crap of the sixties and seventies. Bangla literature has well and truly changed for the better, and it is all due to the seeming madness of these too choosy, too fussy, too unprolific, and too unselfish poets and writers of the eighties.

The use of the vernacular in writing, and an expression of disrespect for the so-called standard dialect -- the all pervasive "chalita Bangla" marked a turning point in the history of Bangla literature. This too, had taken off in the eighties, and writers like Bratya Raisu had a hand in its inception. Many of the writers of the nineties are now treading this path with such determination that it seems it will not be long before the standard dialect will have either to accommodate the vernacular to such an extent that it will lose most of its characteristics, or give way to a completely new standard dialect found on the various local dialects across Bangladesh and West Bengal.

Our written language has never been faced with such a rapid and thorough metamorphosis, and one can hardly emphasise more the need for being extremely cautious in handling this. The new writers ought to keep in mind that only when another standard dialect is ready to use so that they can do away with the existing one, or else we shall have either no written language at all or gobbledygook for a language, which will be even worse. If all goes well, however, we the Bangladeshis are likely to get hold of a lingua franca we can call our own. We have been writing in a borrowed language for too many a century now. Jago, Bangalee, jago! Speak and write in your own native tongue. And only that way you can ever speak the truth.