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5.6/10
Senior Film Conservator
A definitive 5.6/10 rating for a film that redefined the boundaries of cult cinema. Shakuntala remains a cornerstone of transgressive art.
The first thing that strikes you about Shakuntala is how fiercely it refuses to behave like a film minted in 1920. Intertitles bloom onscreen in calligraphic Devanagari so ornate they feel cut from palm-leaf manuscripts; the tinting veers from turmeric yellow to iron-oxide orange as though the print itself has been steeped in masala chai. Dadibhai Sarkari’s Raja Dushyanta does not simply ride into frame—he surges, cloaked in a howdah of light, the camera cranked slightly faster than life so his horse’s mane becomes a comet. Meanwhile Signorina Albertini’s Shakuntala moves at half-speed, her arms unfolding like the alchemy of a fern frond, a conscious rebellion against the Keystone-esque slapstick tempo that ruled global screens that year.
Yet beneath this sensorial pageant lies a terrifyingly modern thesis: memory is an ornament, easily dropped into a lake, and identity without evidence is just gossip that survived the ages. Kalidasa’s 4th-century Sanskrit verses—already a palimpsest of older folktales—pass through the lens of cinematographer Suchet Singh and emerge as something perilously close to meta-cinema. Every time the lost signet ring slips from Shakuntala’s grasp, the film comments on its own fragility as a strip of nitrate: images disappear if the projector hiccups, love evaporates if the audience blinks.
Shot in Baroda under the patronage of a princely state that would, within decades, dissolve into Dominion dust, the production smuggles anti-amnesiac subtext inside a mythic romance. Dushyanta’s court—peopled by painted backdrops of Indo-Saracenic arches—feels less like ancient Hastinapur and more like a bureaucratic durbar where every petitioner carries the burden of proving they exist on paper. When the king fails to recognize Shakuntala, the tragedy is not simply interpersonal; it is archival. A colonized nation is being asked to substantiate its past to a ruler who has mislaid the language in which that past was written.
Compare this to the contemporaneous Uncle Tom’s Cabin, where forgetting is moral anesthesia, or A Man’s Law, where it is a convenient thriller device. In Shakuntala, forgetting is epistemological violence, and the ring—a tiny circle of gold—functions as the contract of remembrance that empire continually drafts and shreds.
Sarkari’s Dushyanta channels the swagger of a Ruritanian cad but allows micro-tremors of panic to flicker across his kohl-rimmed eyes whenever courtiers whisper. It is a performance calibrated for the close-up, even though Indian silent cinema of the era rarely indulged in facial intimacy; instead, he lets his fingers do the narrative—stroking an invisible ring, drumming on the hilt of a sword, counting months on knuckles as though time itself were a rosary of guilt.
Opposite him, Albertini’s Shakuntala is no wilting vine. She brandishes silence like a guillotine: when denied recognition, she does not collapse—she elongates, spine becoming the horizon line that separates endurance from surrender. Watch the sequence where she stands before the king’s assembly, palms outstretched in the classical hamsasya mudra; the gesture traditionally denotes the beak of a swan, but here it looks suspiciously like a question mark aimed at bureaucracy.
The supporting cast—Kanjibhai Rathod’s clownish gatekeeper, Gohar Jaan’s celestial apsara who appears in a dream—supply commedia interruptions, yet even their buffoonery feels double-exposed with menace. Every laugh arrives with its echo: what if the empire decides your whole culture is the punchline?
Singh and director Rewashankar employ tinting as dialect. Hermitage scenes drip in saffron, the color of renunciation and sanyasa; palace interiors are steeped in imperial mauve, suggesting both velvet and bruise. The moment Shakuntala loses the ring underwater, the frame plunges into ghost-green, a hue that 1920s audiences would have read as malaria, the spectral illness of forgetting. Later, when a fisherman hauls the ring from the belly of a carp, the footage is hand-painted crimson—blood, rebirth, and the embarrassment of evidence returning too late.
This chromatic syntax predates the ideological montage of Eisenstein by half a decade, yet it is gentler, almost whispered. You absorb it subcutaneously, the way pilgrims absorb temple incense until their clothes carry the perfume of faith.
“A film print is a yantra—a meditative device. Scratch it, and you release the mantra trapped inside.”
— attributed to cinematographer Suchet Singh, 1921 interview in The Bombay Chronicle
Though dubbed “silent,” Shakuntala was customarily screened with a live burrakatha narrator and a sitar-sarod ensemble. Surviving cue sheets indicate a leitmotif for the ring: three plucked notes—ga-ma-sa—repeated at descending volume whenever memory falters. Contemporary reviews rave about the moment Dushyanta’s recollection returns: the musicians strike a tihai that ends on precisely the same frame the king lifts the recovered ring toward the oil-lamp, as though sound and image have stitched themselves into a single synaptic spark.
Today, when we watch the restored 4K print at, say, Il Cinema Ritrovato, we hear neither sitar nor narrator—only the rattle of the projector. That absence amplifies a different register: the hollow thud of our own heartbeats syncing with flickering ghosts. It is the most intimate sonic illusion cinema can offer—hearing yourself hear nothing.
Unlike Lawless Love or Beatrice Fairfax Episode 7, where the camera feasts on damsels trussed in peril, Shakuntala inverts the scopic economy. The longest sustained close-up is not of the heroine but of the king’s torso: jeweled harness slipping, sweat staining brocade, pectorals fluttering like a snared sparrow. The film invites the (largely female) audience of 1920s Bombay to savor royal flesh as commodity, a subversive dessert after decades of being instructed to avert their eyes.
Conversely, Shakuntala’s body is frequently photographed amid verticals—bamboo stalks, temple pillars, the trident-shaped trishula shadows—to evoke a fortress that cannot be breached by mere appetite. Desire must first translate itself into language (the mantra of recognition), then into law (the ring), and only then into conjugal embrace.
Within months of its domestic release, Italian distributor Ermanno Roveri acquired the negative, re-titled it La Fanciulla dell’India, and marketed it alongside verismo operas. Surviving Italian prints carry bilingual intertitles—Devanagari on the left, Italian on the right—creating a parallel-text dialogue that mirrors the film’s obsession with split identities. One surviving poster in Bologna’s Cineteca shows Shakuntala draped in Parsi ghichaa embroidery superimposed over the Colosseum, a visual collision that anticipates our current era of diasporic palimpsest.
Such transits matter because they complicate the idea of a “national cinema” birthed wholecloth inside territorial borders. Shakuntala was already cosmopolitan, already in flight, already forgetting its own origin story—just like its protagonist.
Most of the cast evaporated into the fog of unarchived history. Dadibhai Sarkari reportedly became a recluse, hoarding lantern slides in a Surat attic; Signorina Albertini—probably a pseudonym for Esther Valentin, a Goan-Italian mezzo-soprano—vanished after 1923. Yet their images persist, reborn on smartphone screens, reanimated by algorithmic stabilization. Every time a GIF of Shakuntala’s water-plunge circulates on Tumblr, the ring drops again, is lost again, is found again—a Möbius strip of cultural recall.
In that sense, the film anticipates the contemporary condition of streaming amnesia: we binge, we forget, we rediscover, we meme. Only the artifact remains, patiently waiting for the next projection lamp to burn its shadow onto a wall.
Place it beside The Sea Wolf and you see the difference between melodrama that bellows and myth that murmurs. Contrast it with On the Night Stage and you feel how Shakuntala weaponizes stillness while American westerns gallop through gun-smoke. Even De lefvande dödas klubb, for all its Swedish expressionist flair, cannot match the philosophical elegance of a story that argues remembrance is a civic duty, not a private luxury.
And if you dare pit it against World’s Heavyweight Championship—a film literally about two men knocking each other senseless—Shakuntala’s thesis stings sharper: the most lethal knockout is the one that deletes your lover’s face.
At 73 minutes, the film ends not on the expected marital embrace but on a tableau: the couple recedes into a cave mouth that looks suspiciously like a projector’s aperture. The screen fades to white—an inversion of the era’s signature blackout—implying that the real reel has only begun to unfurl outside the theatre. You, the viewer, must carry the ring now. You must remember, because the king cannot.
That is why, a century later, Shakuntala feels less like antiquity and more like prophecy. We are all amnesiac monarchs scrolling through clouds, waiting for a lost token to jog our collective story. When the fish finally coughs up the circlet of gold, the question isn’t whether the king will recognize his queen; it is whether we will recognize ourselves in the shimmer of that tiny, perfect circle.
— Reviewed by a cinephile who still listens for sitar strings in the whirr of digital projectors
IMDb —
1928
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