I have slumped through India Song twice. It does not improve on closer acquaintance. To be fair to Mlle Duras, she is quotably her worst enemy: 'I make films to kill time. If I had the courage to do nothing, I'd do nothing … That's the most sincere thing I can say about my activities.' At this rare moment in time, reviewer and film-maker join hands. A more killing way with time—I talk about mine—it would be hard to conjure. Calcutta (maybe), 1937 (perhaps), a doomy love-affair (who knows?). That is the plot. But against whom is it engineered?… To relieve the visual tedium (it looks as if it were shot in an aquarium in need of dusting), many voices say hinting, dislocated things over. Leprosy, heat and famines recur verbally, as well as a really successful non-sequitur about an Indian female who spent ten years trekking to the Ganges, losing a dozen children en route. The happening can only be there to tickle the mind if you believe in nothing. I think Marguerite Duras thinks, when she does, that all art has to start from scratch. I refuse to allow that she has done anything important, significant or new: the tiny, residual impression left by India Song is of a sad, stale odour attempting to pass itself off as a fresh scent. This may be enough for habitués of the Portobello Road and other Flea Markets, who will find meaning in the fall of a stuffed sparrow: and buy the thing.
John Coleman, "Killing Time," in New Statesman (© 1977 The Statesman & Nation Publishing Co. Ltd.), Vol. 94, No. 2427, September 23, 1977, p. 421.∗
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