This is an extraordinary film, and that would be saying less. It is about the life of a foley artist Tarak (Ritwick Chakraborty), who is so absorbed in his work, that all the sounds that he hears are ambient, background sounds, and misses out on a lot of what people talk. This leads to a case of what people understand as a severe case of inattention and loss of contact with the "real" world. And by the mundane societal normative standards he is a "patient" who needs to be treated to get back to "normal".
This is where you start feeling extremely angry with society and feel one with Tarak when he smashes a studio mike in anger. Yes, like Tarak, I wanted to scream, that he is absolutely fine. There is nothing wrong with him. Just because he is more attuned to sounds that others who spend their lives listening to the rabble of unmeaning conversations cannot hear, you cannot brand him as abnormal or ill. Ritwick Chakraborty makes Tarak come alive. He keeps you riveted and draws you in enough to actually care for this unheard of artist. In his ordinariness of everyday life and his genius of perceiving the tiniest of sounds, including the sound of light, he is more than words could describe. He becomes the reason why you watch the film.
As for the direction-it is good, very good. The cinematography is apt.There is a dream sequence on the beach which deserves special mention.
The supporting cast including Srijit, Raima, Churni and Victor are good-but just that. Placed in comparison to Ritwick, their inability to rise from adequate actors to awesome ones stand out glaringly. Raima is just a wife, but, unlike Tarak who totally internalizes the walk, look, talk of an otherwise very middle class, suburban man, she fails to become the very ordinary wife. Her urbanness stands out too much. Churni and Victor fail to make their conversation scenes from falling into a sense of monotony. You start wishing that their scene will get over soon. The last scene is one of the memorable scenes that you will take back with you. It'll be there, haunting you. And it'll probably come back to you when you want to brand someone who doesn't conform to the societal standards of normalcy, ill. That is how everyday all the potentiality that could lead to enhanced sensitivity is killed by the insensitive bland commonplace society.
This is where you start feeling extremely angry with society and feel one with Tarak when he smashes a studio mike in anger. Yes, like Tarak, I wanted to scream, that he is absolutely fine. There is nothing wrong with him. Just because he is more attuned to sounds that others who spend their lives listening to the rabble of unmeaning conversations cannot hear, you cannot brand him as abnormal or ill. Ritwick Chakraborty makes Tarak come alive. He keeps you riveted and draws you in enough to actually care for this unheard of artist. In his ordinariness of everyday life and his genius of perceiving the tiniest of sounds, including the sound of light, he is more than words could describe. He becomes the reason why you watch the film.
As for the direction-it is good, very good. The cinematography is apt.There is a dream sequence on the beach which deserves special mention.
The supporting cast including Srijit, Raima, Churni and Victor are good-but just that. Placed in comparison to Ritwick, their inability to rise from adequate actors to awesome ones stand out glaringly. Raima is just a wife, but, unlike Tarak who totally internalizes the walk, look, talk of an otherwise very middle class, suburban man, she fails to become the very ordinary wife. Her urbanness stands out too much. Churni and Victor fail to make their conversation scenes from falling into a sense of monotony. You start wishing that their scene will get over soon. The last scene is one of the memorable scenes that you will take back with you. It'll be there, haunting you. And it'll probably come back to you when you want to brand someone who doesn't conform to the societal standards of normalcy, ill. That is how everyday all the potentiality that could lead to enhanced sensitivity is killed by the insensitive bland commonplace society.
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