Current Bengali revivals of modern European plays that have had prior runs in Calcutta make for an interesting topic this week. One Russian drama receives politicized treatment while another, as well as a famous French comedy, gets transplanted into zamindari society.

Given West Bengal’s present politics, Nandipat’s Shrinwantu Comrades seems an intriguing choice for Bibhash Chakraborty, who calls himself “a marked man” in his director’s note, citing the “hatred” of “rash tongues” against him. He wishes to issue a fitting riposte to them by holding up a mirror of the true Communist in Mikhail Shatrov’s Blue Horses on Red Grass (1979), translated by Somnath Mukhopadhyay, with poems by Sukanta Bhattacharya and lyrics translated by Subhas Mukhopadhyay. Shatrov, who hailed from a Bolshevik family murdered in the purges, lionized Lenin in several plays as an idealist and pragmatist surrounded by simpletons and opportunists. This portrait of the perfect leftist role model first appeared on the Bengali stage 15 years ago as Amalesh Chakrabarti’s Lal Ghase Nil Ghora, which remains in the repertoire of his group, Anik.

While those few viewers who buy the folder may understand Chakraborty’s subjective reasoning, the production — as an unquestioning defence of Communism — can perplex most others, subverting his goal. Many might think that he has gone back to supporting the CPI(M); Lenin’s glorification may even convert some into what Chakraborty calls “fake Communists”, ironically enough. On the other hand, several scenes and conversations — as with the exploited peasant or the young comrade who has memorized the letter, not the spirit, of the Manifesto — strike home as trenchant criticism of the CPI(M). Among the intentionally didactic performances, Shyamal Chakraborty (picture) gives a studied presentation of Lenin’s physical strain and disappointment with party functionaries before deciding to address the Third Youth League Congress in a grand finale.

Sayak has resurrected its successful Jnanbriksher Phal (1985), adapted from Tolstoy’s The Fruits of Enlightenment (1891) by Chandan Sen. One of the Count’s two most memorable plays, it satirized the affectations and uselessness of the feudal gentry, and championed the earnest and resourceful serfs. A head of household, who once agreed to sell part of his estate for a nominal sum to his subjects, now has second thoughts, influenced by his family (significantly, Tolstoy himself wanted to give away his property, and was strongly opposed by his family). Sen’s conversion of the landowner into a Brahmo zamindar may derive from Tolstoy’s own break with the Orthodox Church to pursue a personal reformist ethics and philosophy, but several historical details sound suspect, for Sen sets it in the early 20th century whereas some lines refer to 19th-century circumstances.

The zamindar’s effete fondness for planchettes creates funny episodes, but Meghnad Bhattacharya directs the whole cast in a broadly farcical style, and they follow, which may make the production popular, though not theatrically challenging. The few major characters who rise above this norm towards higher comic standards include the feckless zamindar (Biswanath Ray) and his arch conservative wife (Manasi Sinha). The original had premiered under Konstantin Stanislavski, the great theorist of realistic acting, so one can imagine what kind of impact he must have had with it.

Into the same zamindari ambience, Tamal Roy Choudhury adapts Anouilh’s witty French rom-com, Ring round the Moon (1947), as Calcutta Performers’ Raslila. Loknath Bandyopadhyay had rendered it into Bengali from Christopher Fry’s English translation commissioned by Peter Brook, a brilliant partnership that none can surpass. Nevertheless, Roy Choudhury, as director, captures the playful atmosphere, if not the vigour or panache, of what Fry termed as “charade”, about mistaken identities and matchmaking, aristocratic aunts.

Debottam Mazumder ably distinguishes his double role of the identical twins, one shrewd and the other sincere, while Tanushree Mitra and Sahana Sen contrast the ‘good’ and ‘bad’ girls respectively.

But the pièce de résistance belongs to Roy Choudhury himself as Majumdar (Anouilh’s melancholic millionaire, Messerschmann), who steals the classic scene in which he tears up his bundles of money and throws the scraps in the air (as props man for the Red Curtain version in 1973, yours truly had rained the notes down from the flies) — a truly Tolstoyan picture, indeed.