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Satyajit Ray, one of the greatest auteurs of twentieth century cinema, was a Bengali motion-picture director, writer, and illustrator who set a new standard for Indian cinema with his Apu Trilogy:Pather Panchali (Song of the Little Road) (1955),Aparajito (The Unvanquished) (1956), andApur Sansar (The World of Apu) (1959). His work was admired for its humanism, versatility, attention to detail, and skilled use of music. He was also widely praised for his critical and intellectual writings, which mirror his filmmaking in their precision and wide-ranging grasp of history, culture, and aesthetics. Spanning forty years of Ray's career, these essays, for the first time collected in one volume, present the filmmaker's reflections on the art and craft of the cinematic medium and include his thoughts on sentimentalism, mass culture, silent films, the influence of the French New Wave, and the experience of being a successful director. Ray speaks on the difficulty of adapting literary works to screen, the nature of the modern film festival, and the phenomenal contributions of Jean-Luc Godard and the Indian actor, director, producer, and singer Uttam Kumar. The collection also features an excerpt from Ray's diaries and reproduces his sketches of famous film personalities, such as Sergei Eisenstein, Charlie Chaplin, and Akira Kurosawa, in addition to film posters, photographs by and of the artist, film stills, and a filmography. Altogether, the volume relays the full extent of Ray's engagement with film and offers extensive access to the thought of one of the twentieth-century's leading Indian intellectuals.

Abstract Purpose – Public debates about censorship laws largely focus on their desirability and the limits set on free speech. From a historical perspective, however, the logic and contradictions inherent in these laws’ implementation, as well as their evasion, also merit attention. This chapter places at the heart of its investigation the General Communist Notification (1932) in British India which prohibited specific kinds of Communist publications from import and circulation, even more so in a context of mass anti-colonial nationalism. Methodology/Approach – Using government and intelligence agencies’ archival records, intercepted documents of the Communist Party of India, legislative debates and memoirs, this chapter illustrates the censorship of Communist literature in India at two levels: one, it sketches a broad picture of the mode and extent of the censorship of Communist literature in late colonial India (c. 1925–1947). Two, by excavating debates and processes around the treatment to be accorded to books of two British Communist writers, John Strachey and R. P. Dutt, it reveals the constraints and dilemmas of censorship of Communist literature. While doing so, it brings both Indian and British voices to the fore. Findings – This investigation provides valuable insights into the operation of laws related to specific genres of publications, provides an assessment of the success of censorship measures, and highlights the repercussions of their failure. Originality/Value – By illustrating the limited success of censorship measures, as well as the dilemmas of censors and debates among them, this chapter urges for a more nuanced and multidimensional understanding of the operation of censorship, particularly in politically fraught contexts.

Fernandes juxtaposes readings of two forms of representation of Phoolan Devi's life history, the film \"Bandit Queen\" and her autobiography, \"I, Phoolan Devi.\" The transformation of Devi into \"India's bandit queen\" provides a striking case of the ways in which the power effects of the production and consumption of cultural forms spill over the territorial boundaries of nation-states and cannot be cast into a singular model of meaning.

Zivin discusses Lionel Fielden's task to modernize radio broadcasting in India in 1935. Fielden wanted to broadcast social and political programs as well as musical ones, and he feared that radio could be used as a tool to ensure political homogenity.

His heart surgery had given him a new lease on life, and so William Shirer was determined to use his remaining years to full advantage. He dreaded dying with unfulfilled dreams and ambitions, as his brother had. However, the two men were different in one vital regard: William Shirer’s self-discipline had always been monk-like, and that continued to be so – at least as far as his writing was concerned. Shirer was at his desk five days per week, often more. He was intent on completing two more volumes of memoirs as well as the stage play that he had been