The Money Pit: Uttam Kumar in The Hero

But The Hero put Kumar’s talents on fuller view than any of his previous films, as if Ray saw a side of Kumar other directors couldn’t. Before The Hero, Kumar performed well in films that were hamstrung by their commercial limitations, leaving little room for psychological depth. Ray’s script for The Hero gave Kumar richer material to mine. Through their collaboration, Kumar and Ray eliminate the seeming tension between their respective mainstream and art-house approaches. The film offers a comment on how commercialism breeds discontent and how the pressures of popular cinema can corrupt a person. Kumar shows just how much fame has allowed Arindam’s inner turmoil to fester.

The performance works, in part, because the role of Arindam winks at Kumar’s public persona. Filming The Hero continually confirmed the extent of Kumar’s fame: during the filming of one scene in Kolkata’s Howrah railway station, thousands of people allegedly came to catch a glimpse of their hero, nearly interfering with the crew’s ability to shoot.

Reducing Kumar’s performance to his star image, though, does a disservice to his skills. A lissome actor, Kumar infuses each gesture—the lighting of a cigarette, the signing of an autograph—with a romantic quality. Even Ray himself was surprised by Kumar’s choices. “They were so spontaneous that it seemed he produced these out of his sleeve,” Ray wrote in an obituary. “If there was any cogitation involved, he never spoke about it.”

Some viewers, particularly non-Bengali ones, may read Kumar’s lithe body language as feminine. Robinson, for example, deemed him “insufficiently masculine” to convince as a matinee idol. Kumar’s gentleness, however, was a key element of his appeal for Bengali audiences. He also used this quality wisely as a performer.

Kumar’s grace is evident from the opening scene. He enters the movie with a sense of hauteur. As Arindam readies himself for his train ride, Kumar firmly establishes Arindam’s cavalier attitude toward fame. He shuns prestige and public affection in equal measure. “I don’t give a damn about the prize,” he says to his assistant at one point. “Damned public! So fickle,” he grumbles shortly after.

In Kumar’s delicate hands, though, Arindam’s self-involvement seems sympathetic rather than repellent. Everything Arindam says in this scene, as written, suggests an insufferably gruff movie star. But Kumar’s charm overrides his character’s arrogance. His assistant tells him that he needs that so-called “damned public.” What would he eat without them? “Boiled fish and rice,” Arindam responds, laughing. Kumar’s quick chuckle to himself is so disarming that it’s easy to understand why the public is so smitten with him.

Moments later, Arindam initially brushes off the trouble that has arisen from his altercation, doubting it’ll pose any threat to his stardom. He can’t escape that news easily, though. The fight is the talk of most of his fellow passengers. That a movie star would ride in a train car with commoners is treated as an unusual occurrence; when he walks through the car, passengers’ eyes trail him. Some regard him as a deity among plebeians, others as a symbol of the moral decay of the movies. Arindam shares a compartment with a couple and their teenage daughter, and the father is horrified that the train crew would assign a star in the midst of a scandal to the same room as a family. Meanwhile, the mother doesn’t understand what’s wrong with Arindam riding with them, reasoning that he’s on his way to receive an award.

In fact, most of the women on the train are besotted with the actor. But there’s one exception: Aditi Sengupta (Sharmila Tagore, an abiding presence in Ray’s cinema), a writer for a woman’s magazine. Her train companions encourage her to interview Arindam. She’s a serious journalist, though. Covering a populist medium like film seems beneath her. Still, Arindam’s torment draws Aditi to him. She begins jotting down notes for a potential story.

The two characters can see right through each other. He asks her if she might consider going into movies, while she wonders if he’s happy in that station of fame in spite of its attendant miseries. There are a few scenes that involve a tête-à-tête between Arindam and Aditi, and they form the crux of the movie. Some of these exchanges take on the weight of psychiatric sessions, while others hum with light flirtation. “Do you know anything about dreams?” Arindam asks Aditi at one point. She responds that whatever is swimming around in someone’s subconscious often materializes in dreams, prompting him to tell her about a particularly discomforting one he’s had recently. In another moment, Aditi takes off the thick-rimmed glasses that hide her face. Arindam, stunned, compliments her on her beauty, only for Aditi to hurriedly put them back on in a fit of embarrassment. In these scenes, Kumar’s openness and ease work off Tagore’s diffidence beautifully.