In the early 90s, there were three kinds of Bengali films.
The taxpayer-financed exercises in intellectual masturbation, which would have a weeks’s run in Nandan before being sent to film festivals in Cuba and Bulgaria, marked by egregious vomiting, death and long languorous shots of dirty soles of feet, much appreciated by bhodrolok with unkempt beards, jholas, hawai chappals and fantasies about Truffaut.
The Swapan Saha-Sukhen Das jhaal muri of populist entertainment, made largely for a suburban and rural audience, cheap knock-offs of Hindi movies or hyper-emotional tragi-dramas with themes drawn from village Jatras, a spicy mixture of talcum powder, flab, and body-parts bartered for treatment of tuberculosis.
And of course Satyajit Ray films.
Then Ray died.