Through The Looking Glass

In a pivotal scene in Govind Nihalani’s film 'Party' (1984), the air crackles with anticipation as Diwakar Barve (Manohar Singh), the enigmatic poet, stands before Damyanti (Vijaya Mehta), a prominent art patron in Bombay. Flickering candlelight casts shadows on his face, accentuating the lines etched by years of contemplation. Barve is about to unravel the very essence of his craft, challenging not only his own creations but the fundamental nature of artistic representation itself. Barve declares that his poetry is a mere cast-off of words (shabd ki kenchul). The statement, pregnant with meaning, leaves the audience suspended between confusion and revelation. He has disavowed the notion that his verses are windows into his soul or society’s collective consciousness. The very foundation of representation is shaken as he unravels the tightly woven threads connecting words to the tangible world. The paralysing bubble of individual experiences is punctured.

'Party', based on a play by Marathi writer Mahesh Elkunchwar, was Nihalani’s third film after 'Aakrosh' (1980) and 'Ardh Satya' (1983). His films, starkly contrasting with formula-based mainstream counterparts, delve into the raw core of human angst. In a poignant rejection of star-centric, song-and-dance Bollywood, Nihalani’s works became a powerful voice for viewers seeking substance over spectacle. His deep love for literature has helped him marry the two forms by employing adaptive methods as also seen in 'Tamas' (1988) and 'Hazaar Chaurasi ki Maa' (1998). Nihalani’s penchant for exploring the works of Western playwrights like Ibsen and Strindberg is reflected in his work for television, particularly the telefilms that he adapted to suit an Indian context. A gifted cinematographer, he was also instrumental in shaping the cinematography of Richard Attenborough’s Oscar-winning 'Gandhi'. Nihalani has made an unforgettable contribution to socially relevant cinema. Unfortunately, despite the awards and critical acclaim his films received, his cinematic legacy has faded in today’s landscape.

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The setting of 'Party' shines the spotlight on bungalows with huge libraries, decked with expensive furniture, too big for the people who inhabit them. One of the initial scenes of the film reveals an emotionally distant poet-husband commanding his dejected, sexually rejected wife not to sing while he is busy writing his new play. The scene is set and the power structure ascertained; the couple is an hour short of attending a party. Private ugliness hides behind the curtains, as men assume composure and emotional outbursts are reserved for women. But not for long. The inner turmoil is either not shown at first or is shrouded in poetic mystery awaiting a revelation as conversations deepen by the minute and secrets slowly come to light.

Mohini’s initial words, “I’m drunk,” upon her arrival at the party with Barve, establish the tone for the evening, where personal relationships become a battleground with each individual navigating their own course. The evening soiree is hosted in honour of Barve by Damyanti for winning a National Literary Award. Most people believe that he bagged it either by being Damyanti’s lover, by using their political connections, or by being a mouthpiece for the established order. The characters exist in a state of interstice, deeply embedded in the ‘chutneyfied’ Indian context. On the one hand, they engage with the enchanting melodies of 'Umrao Jaan' songs and converse fluently in Hindi (often seen as vernacular snobbery), while on the other hand, superficially discuss English literature and Indian politics. Ruth’s Anglophone inclinations exude an air of mimicry that reveals a sense of pathos and loneliness which all the characters feel.

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In the 1970s and 80s, Nihalani’s prototypes emerged, painting a true picture of a society where the elite existed before the term ‘‘Page Three’’ gained currency. His films unravel the hypocrisy of India’s ideological and social elite. They exemplify how the wealthy, privileged, and aspiring artists, drinking whiskey and engaging in whataboutery, deflect criticism by using recrimination or tu quoque arguments. This group prefers to remain silent when speaking up is the only viable solution. Their choice is to talk about the world instead of actually living in it.

In Party, when Vrinda (Gulan Kripalani) criticises these escapist tendencies and the indulgence of such themes by female audience members during the staging of Agashe’s (Akash Khurana) plays, he promptly rebuts her with, “Bade dogle hain aap Marxist log, aam aadmi ki baat karte hain, aur usi ke taste ki khilli udaate hain, woh bhi Malabar Hill ke aalishaan bungalow mein baithkar” (You Marxists are very hypocritical. You talk about the common man and make fun of his taste, that too, while sitting in a luxurious bungalow in Malabar Hill).

Shklovsky, a Russian formalist, drawing on the concept of “estrangement” or “ostranenie”, argued that both literature and film have the power to disrupt routine perception and make the familiar seem strange. In literature, this might involve the use of unconventional language or narrative techniques, while in cinematography, it could manifest through innovative camera angles, editing and storytelling methods. The narrative structure of Party employs a non-linear storytelling approach, interweaving multiple storylines and character arcs. This complexity adds layers to the film, requiring the audience to engage actively with the narrative. Additionally, sudden and often violent cuts at the end of scenes leave the viewer with unsettling questions. The spatial symbolism within the party’s venue adds depth to the narrative, with different rooms representing distinct societal spheres. The use of long takes and close-ups creates an immersive experience, allowing the audience to delve into the nuances of the characters’ lives.

The juxtaposition of different characters and their stories serves as a reflection of the interconnectedness of society, where individual actions can have far-reaching consequences. As the foreground party reaches its crescendo, the camera pans to the background, revealing another gathering where only young people dance gleefully to western music. This visual dichotomy presents a powerful commentary on the nature of societal engagement. While the main party represents the distractions and preoccupations of individuals, the background gathering of carefree youth dancing symbolises a sense of detachment. It suggests that no matter which party one attends, the incessant blabbering and revelry may, in the end, be inconsequential.

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Nihalani’s cinematic gaze extends to the rot of urban crime and the corruption that is rife in the corridors of power. His films resonate with the public’s growing disenchantment with the political system, a sentiment that took root in the 1970s. Nihalani delves into the moral decay that plagues society, revealing how individuals from diverse backgrounds are entangled in a web of deceit and manipulation. The characters’ interactions during the party in the film reveal the pervasive nature of corruption, emphasising that it is not confined to any specific social stratum.

Beyond social critique, Nihalani’s films probe the disparity between art and politics, where ‘‘art’’ and ‘‘voice’’ grapple for prominence in a modern society increasingly defined by perception. When the journalist (Om Puri) arrives at the party, the room transforms into an arena of intellectual reckoning and the discussion steers towards the social commitment of literature, posing an urgent question: “Aakhir hum kyun likhte hain?” (After all, why do we write)? The characters, once passive consumers of art, now find themselves participants in an existential discourse. Some argue that such art risks becoming didactic, sacrificing literary merit for a political agenda, contending that literature should primarily entertain and that didacticism compromises the aesthetic quality of a work. The other side of the argument says that poetry has the power to shape public discourse, challenge dominant narratives, and inspire collective action. This debate raises vital questions about the balance between artistry and advocacy.

In a passionate recitation of the hero in absentia Amrit’s poetry, Bharat asks, “Kyun de mera geet kisi ko bhi pal bhar ka anand? Mera geet hi mera hathiyaar hai” (Why should my song give anyone a moment of joy? My song is my only weapon). Like Banquo’s ghost, Amrit’s spectral presence is palpable, punctuated by the weight of guilt the characters carry.

Growing disillusioned about his own art, Amrit had abandoned his pen—and his literary circles—to serve the Adivasi cause, raising the Audenesque ‘‘Poetry makes nothing happen’’ argument. It is true that poetry is a mode of expression that transcends immediate, tangible results. However, it is equally true that using poetry for reflection about the human experience and a subsequent revolution can bring about change.

(Views expressed are personal)

Pranavi Sharma is a reviewer and culture writer based in Delhi