Blessing. Life in the outback of the Indian state of Maharashtra is not burdened with excesses. Industrialization is slowly coming here. Where the engine works, hands are no longer needed, and there is only darkness ahead, the spectre of hunger, forcing women in brass saris to steal grain, and men to take up any work, no matter how poorly paid it is. But here in the village comes plastered with posters bus amateur theater Tamasha. On the tiny speck of the stage, the dancer charms with her left eye, while the blouse barely holds the fruits of her youth, and blood-earned and sweated rupees fly to her bare feet. Between the dances - short comic scenes on folklore motifs. Here the thirsty gaze opens not only a narrow strip of naked body (although many came for this), but also a whole world where women are beautiful as heavenly nymphs, the gods easily talk to peasants and every day is like a holiday ... like life, not a grueling daily struggle for survival. Drums are pounding. A pink handkerchief falls from the face.
“Natarang” is a film about the theater, but it constantly mentions the cinema, and the closing credits show fragments of newsreels. One principle, one goal. The dream factory is designed to help the viewer forget, give him some light. And the pay for it is those who are on the other side of the screen or ramp. Of course, the story of the main character, the poet and actor Gunvant Kagalkar, is quite exotic. A prominent man “with the habits of a fighter and the charm of a king”, husband, father, informal leader of the village, he is forced to play the role of a eunuch, a mannered aunt, entertaining the crowd with amusing ambiguities. Otherwise, the troupe simply will not, the poems will not be heard, and the future is completely hopeless. But in essence, this is the story of all artists, those who come to the stage for fame, money, an interesting life, the opportunity to be someone else, not realizing how much you have to give in return, even if the talent still makes its way. Of course, few of them hide the death of their father for a month, few people spit in the face, few whose wife is poisoned throughout the village, asking what it is like to live with a homosexual, and whether she did not play with her son on the side. But everyone pays their price: a ruined personal life, unkind attention of the public, an attached mask, defenselessness against the harassment of managers, philanthropists, politicians. The status of an actor is akin to the position of an expensive courtesan, contempt and ridicule go hand in hand with admiration.
Visually, the picture is rather confused. Beautiful finds in the form of colored shadows and a through image of destructive flames coexist with not always successful ragged editing and Indian profligacy with optional flashbacks, which directly duplicate the shown 20 minutes ago in case of memory failures in the audience. But the original musical themes immediately fall into memory, the acting game, if you make a discount on the abundance of tears unusual for the European audience, is really good, and the story told is multifaceted and unpretentiously dramatic. Guna dreamed of being a rajah, a prince, and his life, full of humiliation and loss, is a way to understand the essence of his calling. It doesn't matter if you play raja. It is important to remain a rajah as an effeminate actor, just as the son of the Thunderer Indra remained a god, while disguised as a eunuch, he taught the songs and dances of the royal daughters. Having lost home, family and honor, the poet finds freedom. Naratang adopts the motif of appealing to the gods, who invariably opened a performance in the Tamasha Theater, and becomes a prayer for those who accepted their fate and, surrendering to the Deity, made the profession of an actor a service.
May the audience be fascinated, God, let the show be bright. Show us your blessing, we beg you to be with us. Melody and rhythm: drums rumble in tune with heaven, and leg bracelets ring in rhythm. Bless us! Bless me!