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Devi (1960, India)

One year following his stunning Apur Sansar (The World of Apu) (1959), director Satyajit Ray reunited actors Sharmila Tagore and Soumitra Chatterjee. By this point, Ray was no longer the studious yet inexperienced hand that shepherded the Apu trilogy to its conclusion. But his lead actors were still only starring in their second-ever film. Bengali cinema (Tollywood, based in West Bengal) had a proud history before Ray’s Apu trilogy (1955-1959), but now had caught the attention of audiences beyond India – disproportionately so, as Bollywood (Hindi cinema, based in Mumbai) has always been the largest part of the nation’s film industry. Unlike some of the most popular Tollywood and Bollywood films of the time (and now), Ray never showed interest in romantic-musical escapism and instead dared to make films challenging India’s caste system, sexism, and religious fanaticism.

In his first work addressing religious fanaticism (and arguably his first truly political film) comes Devi, also known by its English-language title as The Goddess. Unlike 1965’s Mahapurush (The Holy Man), which also covers the same topic, Devi is thoroughly a drama, with no hint of comedy or satire. The film’s somber tone did not sit well with general Indian audiences used to lighter fare, and its willingness to criticize the extremes of Hindu religiosity saw the film’s harshest critics deem it (and Ray) as anti-Hindu. If released today, Devi almost certainly would receive a similar, if not more intense, backlash from groups and individuals in India criticizing it out of bad faith.

Somewhere in a rural town in nineteenth century Bengal, younger brother Umaprasad (Soumitra Chatterjee) is ready to depart for Kolkata for university and to study English. Umaprasad’s family is wealthy, with numerous servants tending to their multistory mansion. All is well in their richly-furnished, well-kempt home as he leaves his teenage* wife Dayamayee‡ (Sharmila Tagore) to take of his aging father/her father-in-law Kalikinkar Choudhuri (Chhabi Biswas). One night, Kalinikar awakens from a marvelous dream. An adherent of the goddess Kali, his visions lead him to believe that his daughter-in-law is Kali’s physical incarnation. Upon awakening, he rushes to Dayamayee and falls to his feet in worship. Dayamayee’s life as Umaprasad’s wife has ended. Against her will, she becomes an object of religious devotion as word spreads of Kalikinkar’s dream and a supposed miracle shortly thereafter.

Devi also stars Purnendu Mukherjee as Umaprasad’s brother, Taraprasad; Karuna Banerjee as Harasundari, Taraprasad’s wife; and Arpan Chowdhury as Taraprasad and Harasundari’s son (Dayamayee’s nephew).

Where a year prior Apur Sansar was Soumitra Chatterjee’s movie, Devi is likewise Sharmila Tagore’s. Tagore, sixteen years old upon the film’s release year, again finds herself in a role with little dialogue, even less than her supporting role in Apur Sansar. The moment Tagore’s Dayamayee becomes a devotional figure, her dialogue and ability to exert her own agency disappears. Until Umaprasad returns home shortly after the halfway mark, so much of Tagore’s performance before and after seems spliced from a great silent film. Perched on a small block, a pedestal if you will, she almost never looks at the camera or those intoning “Mā” (“Mother” in Bengali; Kali is the avatar of Durga, and both are forms of the Mother Goddess, Devi) as men and women pray and prostrate themselves in front of her. At times, Dayamayee’s mental and physical exhaustion is clear, even if she is looking sideways or into the ground, as she sits in place for several hours at a time. Is there any one there to make sure that this “goddess” is properly being taken care of? It seems doubtful.

It is unclear how long it takes for word to reach Umaprasad in order for him to return home to see the daily scenes at his family’s residence. Even for less than a day, this whole situation is intolerable to Dayamayee. Her resignation is evident in her slightly hunched back, unable to find a psychological or physical escape. The scene where Umaprasad returns home to see Dayamayee venerated as a goddess contains striking facial acting from both Tagore and Chatterjee. In Chatterjee, we see Umaprasad comprehending the situation in real time, as his horror renders him almost speechless. In Tagore, Dayamayee looks up, and in a figment of hope, there is utter heartbreak. These long days of adoration and miracle-seeking pilgrims have even shaken her sense of reality, as almost all vestiges of her past life wither away. In a rare private moment with Umaprasad, she questions her very being: “But what if I am a goddess?”

Satyajit Ray, who also wrote this screenplay based on the 1899 Bengali short story of the same name by Prabhat Kumar Mukhopadhyay, was part of the Brahmo Samaj movement, which advocates for a monotheistic interpretation of Hinduism. Brahmos, crucially, reject the caste system and avatars/incarnations of gods and goddesses. Ray’s adherence to the reforms of Brahmo Samaj color his filmography more obviously as his career progresses (I have not seen too much of Ray’s work, but I have not yet encountered a film of his that inelegantly portrayed his beliefs). Ray’s reformist and Western-leaning stances are embodied by Chatterjee’s Umaprasad, who we see clash with his more traditional father over social mores (the latter is distrustful of his son’s education, and derides his son for supposedly espousing Christian beliefs). Except for the scenes of a religious procession immediately after the opening credits, at no point does Ray imbue any of the religious images with any sense of glory, wonder, or veneration. Cinematographer Subrata Mitra (the Apu trilogy, 1966’s Nayak) dispenses of any ethereal lighting until the closing seconds, and his medium to close shots capture the uncomfortable anguish on both sides – Dayamayee’s alternating ambivalence and despair, the worshippers’ desire for comfort, deliverance, and the miraculous.

Like in several of Ray’s films including Mahapurush and Ganashatru (An Enemy of the People) (1989), Devi rejects dogmatism, miracles, superstitions, and anything that cannot have a rational or scientific explanation. Simultaneously, Ray realizes that most Indians, in the face of events profound and improbable, find science and rationality cold, confusing, and unsatisfying. Faith endows meaning to such moments. Faith ascribes purpose to happiness and suffering – something rationalism cannot provide. The unsuitability of both to provide a solution in Devi is the film’s secondary tragedy, as belief systems confront a scenario where a middle ground is impossible.

Devi’s principal tragedy is the religious objectification of Dayamayee. Of all of Ray’s female protagonists from Pather Panchali (1955) to this point, none of them are as constrained as Tagore’s Dayamayee. She may not live in poverty like Apu’s sister and mother in the Apu trilogy, nor is she the wife of an indulgent husband (1958’s Jalsāghar or The Music Room). And though she is not bound by shackles or subject to physical or sexual abuse, Dayamayee is nevertheless a victim of the unpredictable whims of men (and it is almost entirely men who worship her). Her portrayal is nuanced: she does not succumb entirely to self-pity, nor does she possess the strength to tell her father-in-law and his fellow worshippers to halt their devotional displays. She is aware of the communal damage she will cause if she so much renounces her unwanted divinity. At the same time, she cannot help but yearn for freedom, for others to speak to her like a human again – complete with aspirations, desires, and fears that no one can associate with a god.

Too often in cinema – wherever and whenever it hails from, including midcentury India – women play simplistic roles: the lover, the damsel in distress, the spurned wife. Where numerous filmmakers and actresses in the Hollywood Studio System were actively working to dismantle this element of patriarchy, I do not detect a similar level of rebellion in mainstream Indian cinema in the 1950s and 1960s (and, to some extent, this remains true). Ray did not stand alone in attempting to endow female characters with complexity (within and outside Bengali cinema), but his contributions to this development within the context of midcentury Indian cinema are crucial. Many of his films attempt a cinematic dialogue that critiqued patriarchal abuses with subtlety and bluntness – often to the chagrin of the public and government officials. The public outrage following Devi’s initial domestic release saw the film banned from seeking international distribution. Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru intervened and reversed that decision.

Nevertheless, consider some of the works in Ray’s first decade as a filmmaker: The Apu trilogy, Devi, Teen Kanya (1961), The Big City (1963), and Charulata (1964). Together, all seven of those films reveal a filmmaker willing to take mainstream Indian filmmaking to task for regressive and simplistic portrayals of women, whether in lead or supporting roles. Devi might be the most shattering of that collection, caught between human weakness and the unknowability of the divine.

My rating: 8.5/10

^ Based on my personal imdb rating. My interpretation of that ratings system can be found in the “Ratings system” page on my blog. Half-points are always rounded down.

For more of my reviews tagged “My Movie Odyssey”, check out the tag of the same name on my blog.

* There were no child marriage laws in India in the nineteenth century, when this film is set. Child marriage remains prevalent in India, despite loophole-filled laws and a lack of enforcement.

‡ Multiple spellings of the protagonist's name are out there from reputable sources. I am using either the most or second-most common spelling here.

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