Puratawn

Watching Puratawn felt like stepping into a forgotten, dust-laden corridor of memory, where every footfall echoed with something tender and unspoken. From the very first frame, the film set its own slow, deliberate pace, refusing to rush, inviting me instead to slow down and breathe in its quiet melancholy. It was not just a story unfolding on screen; it was an experience - almost like sitting by a window on a grey afternoon, watching the rain, letting the past seep back into the present.

What struck me most was how Puratawn never tried to overwhelm the viewer. It captured profound emotions without ever raising its voice. There was no dramatic outburst, no soaring music to signal a climax. Instead, emotions ebbed and flowed naturally, in small, delicate ripples. The performances mirrored this restraint - the actors inhabited their characters with a kind of worn-in familiarity, speaking volumes with the slightest glance, a subtle shift of expression, or a long-held silence. Their portrayals felt deeply lived-in, as if they carried invisible histories just beneath the surface.

The cinematography, too, played a silent yet vital role in building this atmosphere. The muted color palette - all soft browns, faded greys, and weary blues - lent the film a timeless quality, as though we were looking at an old photograph slowly coming to life. Shadows lingered in corners, light fell gently across faces, and empty spaces often said as much as words did. Each frame was composed like a painting, yet there was an organic, unpolished beauty to it that made the world of Puratawn feel tangible and true.

The music was another quiet companion on this journey. There were no grand orchestral scores, only gentle, almost hesitant strains that rose and fell like forgotten lullabies. At times, the silences between the notes were more powerful than the music itself, making me acutely aware of the spaces between people, of words left unsaid, of emotions too heavy to be voiced. It was as if the film trusted the audience to listen - not just to what was spoken, but to everything that hung between the lines.

What lingered most after the credits rolled was the film's profound sense of nostalgia. Puratawn is not about grand events or sweeping changes; it is about small, ordinary moments, and the ways in which they leave their marks on us. It reminded me how memories do not announce themselves - they drift in quietly, triggered by a familiar smell, an old song, a sudden change in the weather. Watching the characters navigate their own memories, regrets, and unspoken hopes, I couldn't help but reflect on my own life - the people I had lost touch with, the conversations I never finished, the places that once meant everything and now exist only in my mind.

In the end, Puratawn left me with a strange sense of peace, tinged with a soft sadness. It made me realize that the past is never truly gone; it stays with us, living quietly beneath the surface of our everyday lives, waiting to be remembered in moments of stillness. Sometimes, a story doesn't need to shout to be heard; it just needs to find a way to sit beside you, quietly, until you are ready to listen.

Puratawn is that kind of film - a whispered conversation between memory and longing, an invitation to slow down, look back, and, perhaps, forgive both the past and oneself.

At one point in the film, the character of Indranil Sengupta advises his wife (Rituparna) to let her mom live in her past, which, although a result of her dementia, is an escape from the rapidly changing world. It seems like a preach, an advice from him, but as the characters unfold, we slowly understand why such is the reason for such a bit of unusual advice.

The film revolves around a sparse set of characters and their relationship with significant memories. The title of the movie "Puratawn (or the ancient)" is an ode to every character who is either trying to get over their past or clinging to it. An ancient mansion where time had gnawed at its once-pristine walls, leaving behind a tapestry of cracks and peeling paint that whispered of forgotten days, acts as a metaphor for the old lady residing there, who is consistently going back to her past unconsciously. The concept of time space never seems to find its right path there, it moves like a calm river flowing around the house.

As the octogenarian lady (Sharmila Tagore) dwells in her world, her estranged daughter and son-in-law come to celebrate her birthday. They were both somewhat puzzled by the world the serene mansion presents around them, and it seemed confusing and made them ponder. As their real-world scenarios converge with the world of the mansion, it creates chaos, quite naturally. But still, the characters slowly blend in, as the overwhelming attraction of the past engulfs them.

Suman Ghosh(director) shows restraint in how the characters behave in the film, the storyline taking a backseat, giving precedence to the silence, the lyricism of memories, the nuances of a failing relationship with delicately paced scene transitions(another feature to the cap of Aditya Vikram Sengupta, chief editor of the film). That being said, although the primary focus of the film was Sharmila Tagore's character, it doesn't delve too deeply into flashbacks, which kind of is off-putting for a mainstream audience to sympathize with her.

The film, although scores on silence, its muted frames, and melancholic music, but what hinders the film from becoming a superior poetic narrative is the dialogue. The dialogues, most of the time, come out as very much prosaic, deferring to the lyricism of the plot.

Ravi Kiran Ayyagiri's frames act as a visual comfort; the way he captures the mansion, the ruins is thoroughly remarkable. Alokananda Dasgupta's music is another driving point of the film, which enriches the aesthetic capabilities of the poetic lyricism in the narrative.

In the performances, Rituparna Sengupta (who is also the producer of the film) has done a decent job; she flourishes in a few scenes, but we have seen better from her. It is maybe due to the issue with the dialogues I have already mentioned. Indranil Sengupta is quite a surprise in his role here, he beautifully embraces his character of a wildlife photographer with a past he is struggling to get over. After a long time, the actor in Indranil comes forth.

Brishti Roy as the fast-talking housemaid is also quite remarkable in some scenes, but the character is not properly fleshed out, and neither is her relationship with her employer.

Sharmila Tagore is brilliant, it's nearly 7 decades she has been working as an actress, with the same amount of grace and exuberance. She is a treat to the eyes, as she performs with the same amount of ingenuity she is known for.

Although I feel, more focus should have been given to her character on the medical side, as a patient suffering from dementia, the haplessness, vulnerability should have been more brought to focus.

The film presents a poignant connection between past and present, times and memories intertwined. It is also a tale of aging, a feeling of fading away in remembrance.

The film, termed to be Sharmila's last acting job, is somewhat an appropriate farewell to her body of work.