The floodgates have opened, and Tagore jamborees let loose. Purba Paschim’s festival raised the curtains on three new productions now drawing packed halls. Although I heartily support reinterpretation, all of them left me dissatisfied for one reason or another, the most important being unfaithfulness to Tagore at crucial moments.

Bisarjan, as I have written ad nauseam, has major dramatic problems. Suman Mukhopadhyay negotiates these for Tritiya Sutra by editing the text closely, but like virtually all directors, he shies away from Tagore’s climactic direction towards the end: Raghupati “throws the idol into the Gomati’s waters”. I await the director who has the courage to show this explicitly. Sanchayan Ghosh’s symbolic set of the goddess’s gigantic foot (picture) renders the mise en scène too static, and the steep gradient placed on the floor has ridiculous results because the actors take turns to roll down its slope like kids. They also never miss an opportunity to ring the temple bell dangling from the top. Members of the star cast act in their own styles, the total vision becoming incongruous. The first half closes with Gautam Halder (Raghupati) and Kaushik Sen (Jaysingha) wallowing in melodrama, whereas Miska Halim does nothing at all with Gunabati’s part except for imitating Lady Macbeth. Mukhopadhyay lets strange things happen: Aparna (Turna Das, the only person to act naturally) asks for Jaysingha, but when he comes she leaves. The music makes me think that Mukhopadhyay’s film avatar has taken over — a cinematic soundtrack throughout, an effects-laden overture, even Aparna’s song recorded.

The filmmaker, Gautam Halder, takes on Rakta-karabi for Purba Paschim and goes down the same route with an obtrusive movie score and canned songs. Besides, the music by Amaan Ali Khan and Ayaan Ali Khan suggests that they have not read this classic deeply. Worst of all, Halder perverts the source by — brace yourselves — making Nandini die in the finale. Tagore never intended that on stage. Like many an urban Nandini, Chaiti Ghosal believes that by flourishing neatly ironed open tresses and immaculately draped saris, smiling broadly and keeping her mouth wide open, she expresses an innocent, rural will-o’-the-wisp. I felt like keeping my eyes shut tight. Sanchayan Ghosh’s elaborate design, well lit by Uttiyo Jana, gives the set a contemporary touch, and we warm up to expect industrialized entrapment, but then there enter troops wearing horns on their heads and we wonder what to make of that. Both Mukhopadhyay and Halder must realize that spectacular does not signify superior, that it often backfires into a big-budget bomb. As in Bisarjan, only one actor appeals with a simple, natural flair — Subhrajit Dutta as Bishu; most others exaggerate.

Sayak has selected that funny short story of mistaken identity, Muktir Upay, in Chandan Sen’s dramatization titled Mukti! Mukti!, which is a problem. Since Tagore himself had dramatized it late in life, why would anyone in his right mind think that he can improve on the original? Still, assuming he could, we find Sen instead inserting new characters, like a certain choric Rasik, unwarranted by the story, and a subplot (Makhanlal marrying a third time in Kasi — only a rumour in the original). To serve its aim of producing a full-length play, Sayak should have dropped Sen’s script and stuck to Tagore’s own drama, for Tagore, driven by the same compulsion, had added the role of the educated Pushpamala, Haimabati’s sister, with much greater fun. However, Meghnad Bhattacharya does direct his team in a merry satire on spiritual chicanery and polygamous aristocrats, as Tagore wanted, not sparing Makhanlal’s first two wives (loudly delivered as bullies by Indrajita Chakrabarti and Susmita Dasgupta) either. Samiran Bhattacharya (Makhan) and Partha Goswami (his father) are the most convincing male performers.

Most inspiring among the productions at the festival, Valmiki Pratibha, by the West Bengal Correctional Services, has already had many shows and has become a talking point. It applies drama therapy to enable prisoners to transcend their daily regimen and contribute something of value to society. Tagore himself could not have foreseen a more appropriate match of actor with character: Nigel Akkara, serving time as a criminal, subsequently released and now rehabilitated, performs as Ratnakar the dacoit redeemed into Valmiki, composer of the Ramayana. The director, Alokananda Roy, takes art into prison, successfully instilling dignity and self-esteem into the once-demoralized inmates — her cast and crew. They use forms they know, like Chhau dance and cottage handicrafts, to create everything down to the costumes and props. In the spirit of things, the Chhau representation of deities should return in the concluding tableau, instead of Roy herself (albeit ‘mother’ to the entire group) appearing as Saraswati. Inspector-general B.D. Sharma sings Valmiki’s lines soulfully, though not live.