in conversation with tareque masud

Tareque Masud locates his films on the confluence of high and popular  art and urges for the rise of pre-modern Islamic culture as a response  to Islamomania. James Leahy caught up with Tareque Masud for an  intriguing interview.

James Leahy: Obviously Matir Moina (The Clay Bird)  is deeply rooted in the culture of Bengal and the  history of Bangladesh, which are arguably as impor­tant thematically and filmically as the story of  Tareque’s childhood with which they are intertwined.

However, these roots, though less explicit, seem  equally important in Ontorjatra (Home-land). Thus, for  me, the double bill of these two features provided a  fitting climax for the film screenings segment of the  British Museum’s ‘Voices of Bengal’ programme. Can  you talk about the importance of Bengali culture in  your work, and to you personally?

Tareque Masud: I agree with your observation that  despite the fact that both films are in a way very  different in terms of subject, canvas and backdrop,  there are certain commonalities between the films. It is not limited to these two films, but a common theme  in all of our films. The search for identity is common  theme in most of our films. In essence, anything that  is related to questions of identity is embedded with  questions of culture. So, Bengali culture is omnipotent  and omnipresent in our work. Although this is not the  focus of our films, this is a very inherent and ingrained aspect of our films. When I say Bengali  culture, I mean it in the widest sense of the word, not  in a narrow nationalist sense. I’m proud of the rural,  folk, and pre-modern parts of our Bengali culture.

That culture is egalitarian, inclusive, and syncretic. This is the culture of Bengal that I am very interested  in. In all of our films the egalitarian and pluralistic  culture of Bengal is portrayed. Like in Matir Moina the  Sufi mysticism, the popular folk culture, is very much  evident. This mystic folk culture, which is called,  ‘Baul’, is a combination of Buddhist mysticism, Hindu  mysticism, and Iranian Sufism. Baul philosophy is a  culmination of these three strong influences, and  through this we have incredibly popular and powerful  syncretic culture, which is in opposition to the present  political and religious polarization of Bangladeshi  society. For example, there is an extreme rise of  Islamism in Bangladesh; there is also an equally  problematic rise of Bengali ultra-secularism. This is an  upper middle-class phenomena which is very much  limited within the urban populace. In the greater  population in the rural areas, things are much more  egalitarian and much less polarized. In rural areas the presence of ultra-secularism or political Islam is  still very limited. I see an antidote in the syncretis­tic folk mystic tradition to the extreme polarity of  urban ultra secularism and political Islam. I think  that the encouragement of this so-called pre­modern culture could be a solution to these new  modern syndromes.

JL: Songs and music are extremely important in  your films; is this on account of their having a similar  importance in Bengali culture?

TM:  Very much so. If we want to evolve a regional  or indigenous language of cinema I think we have to  find inspiration in our traditional folk culture and folk  forms. This understanding of traditional folk forms  can help us shape a proper cinematic language, instead  of a blind importation of Western film syntax or  idioms. The technology of cinema was invented and  evolved initially in Europe and the United States. Of  course, this doesn’t mean that the science that evolved  in Europe belongs to Europe only. The whole world is the inheritor of this technology. I would like to  compare it with religion. When we are adopting Islam,  we can definitely adopt the creed of Islam from the  Middle East. But when we try to adopt the culture that came along with this creed, which is specific to  the Middle East, this becomes a forced implantation.

So when the Islamic creed was adapted to the South Asian culture, which is exactly what happened during  the expansion of Islam, it became integrated with  South Asian culture. That’s why I would say that the  technology, the essential grammar, and other struc­tural elements of cinema are definitely okay to borrow  from the West. But unfortunately we don’t only import the technology; sometimes we import the  content and context with the technology. To evolve  our own mode of expressions, language, syntax, and  the idioms of cinema, we don’t have to be completely  original. Our folk plays are musical, our folk songs are  narrative, and even our visual art, like scroll paintings  are also musical and narrative. So if you consider film  as a predominantly visual art it can easily take its  inspiration from scroll paintings, like Gajir Geet or  Patachitra. Traditionally, when these scroll paintings  were displayed, it was like a type of prehistoric cinema. A scroll is rolled with the right hand, and there are different frames of paintings that rotate in  front of the viewer’s eye. As one picture changes to  another the person who is rotating the scroll narrates a story through song. The story is told visually through song. So I think it is very natural that our  cinema should have strong music elements to it. I’m  not the first one to explore this possibility. To quote  Satyajit Ray, when Ritwik Ghatak died, he was  recorded as saying, “Ritwik Ghatak was a much more  Bengali film maker than I am.” And I think it is just tried to evolve a language that is very much rooted in  Bengali theatrical, musical, and narrative traditions,  which are all very melodramatic.

The very famous Bengali musical folk drama, ‘Jatra,’  which is punctuated with many songs, is melodramatic  in structure. He used that melodrama very consciously  in his otherwise very internationally contemporary  films. I don’t see myself as pioneering any iconoclastic  new film approach, it is a road which has already been  paved by Ritwik Ghatak, and in some ways also by  Satyajit Ray, despite the fact that Ray’s mindset was  much more Western. Even so, there is a strong use of  music and song in Ray’s films. He himself was a  musician and had very strong roots in western and  eastern music. I am also very fond of folk music. So  these are the reasons that many of our films contain  songs and music.

JL: The song about Matir Moina : is the title of the  film taken from the song, or was the song written  specially for the film?

TM: First of all the title is partly taken from the  song. If you remember the young Anu who brings the  clay bird from the village fair and gives it to his sister,  Asma, which is very close to my own real life experi­ence. It is not only a very special moment in the film;

it is also a strong moment in my own life. Particularly  after my own sister died, that little gift, the clay bird,  remained very close to my heart. But in addition, it  meant more than that personal gift to my sister, or  Anu’s gift to his sister in the film. The clay bird is a  representation of one of the core themes in the film,  abstractionism versus paganism, which is the ongoing  debate throughout the film. As you know, Anu is sent  to the madrasa because his father wanted to refrain  him from local pagan influences.

When I was a child, I was drawn to and intrigued by  pagan elements. I think most children are. I think that  goes not only for children, because there is a child in  every adult. We are all drawn to pagan phenomena,  festivities, and pagan icons. The adult abstractionist  intellectuals, including many of the Judeo-Christian­Islamic prophets, tried to reform these ‘children’, in  the wider sense of the word. But it is instinctive  human nature to go back to paganism. So, in, Matir  Moina, the whole conflict between paganism and  abstractionism is an undercurrent theme. The song has a very complex history of origin, like other songs  in the film too. They were not written for the film, but  they were not purely pre-existing songs either. I used  the traditional folk songs and rephrased them; or  rather I should say I compressed them. Generally these songs are longer than six minutes. For example, the song in which the man and woman debate goes on  for an entire night.  It’s not six minutes; it’s more like  six hours. So I had to confine this whole debate into  six minutes for the film’s sake. Same with the ‘clay  bird’ song in this film, I literally copied the diction that is generally used in folk songs. The moina, which  is the name of a bird, is often referred in mystic  Bengali folk songs. The moina always means some­thing close to the soul – a metaphor for the soul.

According to Sufi tradition and the Koran, the human  body is made of clay and the soul is like a bird that  always wants to be free and flying but is trapped in the  human body. So this whole paradox is reflected in the  song and also in the greater body of the film. The  song is thus a very pertinent element in the film, and  the theme of Matir Moina is not limited to the song.

JL: What about other cultural influences? I know  you have written about Satyajit Ray’s adaptations of  Tagore’s stories, and that Persian poetry is important  to him. Can you both expand on this?

TM: Besides films and filmmakers, there are also  some other cultural and literary influences. I was  exposed to Persian classic literature during my  madrasa times. Farsi literature was part of my studies. I was introduced to Hafis, Khayam, and other  important Iranian writers. Many of these writings  contained Sufi mystical elements. Later on I was drawn to Persian Mogul paintings. I find a parallel to  the narrative character of these paintings in Patachitra  scroll paintings. I grew up in an area of Bangladesh  called Faridpur; a stronghold of Baul culture. Faridpur contains many lower cast Hindu artisans. I grew up  seeing, ‘Jatra’  and the Vishwa Karma Puja boat  festival. Besides the boat festival there were a lot of  village fairs, which we call ‘mela.’ While I was in the  madrasa I was in a place of absolute austerity. It was  extremely uneventful and monochromatic. We had to  wear mostly white clothing. It was devoid of any  festivity. Upon returning home from the madrasa, the  entire village’s colors and sounds used to burst upon  me. Unlike my peers, I was more interested in pagan  festivities because I was deprived from seeing these  things during most of my childhood.

JL: Many of these are influences from high or elite  culture. How do you respond to the charge that is  often leveled at filmmakers in your position, including  many of the great African filmmakers, that you are  making films for an elite minority rather than a  popular audience?

TM: I totally admit that many of my influences  come from so-called ‘high art,’ like Tagore and Ray.

But most of my influences do not; they come from  populist, folk, and pre-modern sources. I see myself as a result of the combination of high and popular  art. If you watch our films carefully you will see that  these are not typical art films. Our films are mostly  seen and appreciated by ordinary people in  Bangladesh, and I am sure abroad as well. We are  known as populist filmmakers. At the same time I am  absolutely aware of my influences from certain high  art sources. Even as a viewer I greatly admire populist  cinema in my own country and also many of the films  that are coming from Africa, Latin America, South  America and Palestine.

JL: I have been struck by the strength of family ties  in your work. Thus, in Matir Moina, the father, who is,  in the words of the boatman, a “new Muslim… full  of fervour,” remains close to his brother, despite not  approving of his opinions and beliefs. Ontorjatra is  effectively about the reintegration of the family, and  this is possible because the members’ ties are stronger  than their resentments or weaknesses. As far as I can  remember, this attitude is rare in European or  American cinema, and I’ve been wondering if it  reflects your personal beliefs, or whether it is also an  important aspect of Bengali social relations?

TM: I think it is an interesting observation on your  part. It is a part of my personal experience more so  than my personal beliefs. I grew up in an extended  family atmosphere. My uncles, cousins, aunts, grand­parents, etc. were all together. In Bangladesh there is still very much of an extended family culture. ‘Family  values,’ not in a Western-specific political sense, but in  more of a traditional sense, still matter. All of my  films are about familial relationships. It isn’t just the  affinity, but the dynamics and differences. In some  ways this reflects my own family relationships.

Through my own work I try to come to terms with my own relationship with my parents. I agree with you  that it is very much unlike the sensibilities that are  reflected in Western cinema. Although the familial ties  are breaking down here, there is a widening gap  between old and young generations. That is why it is  very important to me to address these family bonds. I  find Ozu and Ritwik Ghatak to be very great inspira­tions. Their sensibilities are very close to my own. I  think this is not just limited to Ontorjatra and Matir  Moina, it will continue to be important in future films.

JL: Why did you reject telling the story of Matir  Moina chronologically, and instead decide to flash back  to the village after opening in the madrasa?

TM: In some ways we tried to make the film  according to a traditional structure because we wanted  it to have a folkloric simplicity, which is my biggest  inspiration in filmmaking. But not only during the  flashback, but also in the rest of the film, we tried to  get away from this linear and cathartic approach to  storytelling. As soon as a story becomes very absorb­ing to the audience, we make a sudden departure from  that linear structure and go into a folk song or a  political debate, which is a recurring pattern in the  film. The story and the debate are interchanged  throughout the film so that once the audience  becomes absorbed in the narrative aspect of the film  we take them away from that narrative and cathartic  involvement that has been used so far in the film.

Especially in the case that you are mentioning, I didn’t  want to start chronologically with Anu’s pre-madrasa  time building up to his madrasa time. I wanted to start  with an ambient aspect, like the early morning fog on  the steps. So I introduced this whole ambience to the  audience and then gradually led them to the village  where Anu came from and then of course showed  what circumstances led his parents to send him to the  madrasa. This is a complex structure and I think we  tried to do it without any conventional flashback  treatment. I felt that starting the film in the madrasa  was a more natural approach because it was going to  be the core location for the audience to remember.

Also, as I mentioned, it was a part of the non-linear  structure of the film that demanded this type of  beginning. JL: Can you say something about the relations you  and your films have with the expatriate Bengali  community in the U.K.?

TM: We have a very good relationship with the  Bengali community in East London. We visit London  quite often and we have visited with members of the  community many times. We have many friends and  family living there. Every film we have made has had a  very successful screening there. We interacted a lot  with the audiences every time we went with one of  our films, especially Muktir Gaan, Muktir Kotha, and of  course, Matir Moina. So this relationship is definitely a  long lasting and important one. Living in New York  for five years during the 1990s, we developed an  interest in and understanding of the Bangladeshi  community living abroad. So, indirectly, we do have  some type of a shared experience with this diasporic  community. In both London and New York we used  to receive many requests from community leaders  asking us to make a film about their lives. But we  always shied away from this because we felt we were  not ready to make a film about a life that we were not  a part of. After returning to Bangladesh, Catherine and I starting thinking about people like us, who lived  abroad at one point and  decided to return. Planning  to come back is one thing but actually returning is a  strange experience. When you come back to visit, as a  ‘probhashi’ (expatriate), it is one thing, but when you come back to live in Bangladesh it’s very strange. You  find that the country has changed and you have also  changed. It’s not just that you have difficultly adjust­ing to the country you’ve returned to, you are not  accepted as a fellow countryman. You are seen as half  ‘bideshi’ (foreigner). When Catherine goes back to the  United States she feels kind of culture-shocked. Her  friends and family also find her to be quite changed. It  is a common feeling we share, of not totally belonging  in either place yet at the same time trying to belong to  both. For example, Catherine would be in the USA  and a shopkeeper would ask her where she is from. 

When she would say, “I’m from here,” they wouldn’t  believe her, and they would ask her again, “But where  are you originally from?” because she has developed  such a strong South Asian accent. Most of our  experiences living as ‘probhashis’ come from living in  NYC. But since our return we have kept closer ties to  the community in East London, and the story of  Ontorjatra is partly based on the true stories of some  families there. James Leahy is a film historian and screenwriter based in London. His writings on cinema have appeared in The Guardian, Sight &  Sound, Cahiers du cinéma in English, Vertigo and PIX.

Tareque Masud locates his films on the confluence of high and popular  art and urges for the rise of pre-modern Islamic culture as a response  to Islamomania. James Leahy caught up with Tareque Masud for an  intriguing interview. James Leahy: Obviously Matir Moina (The Clay Bird)  is deeply rooted in the culture of Bengal and…