There are actors who become stars because they are beautiful, glamorous or marketable. And then there are actors who become something larger: a voice, an attitude, a moral posture. Nana Patekar belonged to the second category.
His death at 75 marks the end of a remarkable career spanning nearly five decades, but it would be inadequate to describe him merely as a successful actor. He became a popular icon without ever looking or behaving like a conventional icon. He did
There are actors who become stars because they are beautiful, glamorous or marketable. And then there are actors who become something larger: a voice, an attitude, a moral posture. Nana Patekar belonged to the second category.
His death at 75 marks the end of a remarkable career spanning nearly five decades, but it would be inadequate to describe him merely as a successful actor. He became a popular icon without ever looking or behaving like a conventional icon. He did not cultivate the aura of the star. He cultivated the authenticity of a man who had seen enough of life to speak plainly about it.
Born Vishwanath Patekar in Maharashtra, Nana came to acting through Marathi theatre before making his film debut in Gaman in 1978. Theatre gave him something that cannot easily be manufactured in a film studio: an instinct for language, timing, silence, gesture and the emotional architecture of a character. His roots were not in the artificial world of celebrity but in the earthy discipline of performance.
He had also known struggle and worked at ordinary jobs before success came his way. For years, he was essentially a character actor, appearing in films without the privileges ordinarily accorded to the hero. But Parinda in 1989 changed the equation. His portrayal of the gangster Anna was chilling precisely because it did not resemble that of a conventional cinematic villain. His face, voice, silences and sudden eruptions did the work. The performance won him the National Film Award for Best Supporting Actor and a Filmfare Award.
Yet the Nana Patekar phenomenon was really created in the 1990s. Angaar, Tirangaa and, above all, Krantiveer transformed him from a formidable character actor into a performer who could carry a film. In Krantiveer, he played Pratap Narayan Tilak, a disillusioned and angry man who becomes a revolutionary figure. The film gave full expression to something already latent in Nana’s acting: rage against injustice. His famous monologues were not merely dialogue delivery. They sounded like accusations being hurled at a society that had become too comfortable with corruption, communalism and cowardice.
For that performance, he won the National Film Award for Best Actor and the Filmfare Award for Best Actor. The distinction between Nana Patekar the actor and Nana Patekar the public personality was always unusually porous. His screen characters often spoke with the impatience of a man who had no time for euphemisms. He talked straight. He appeared unwilling to bow before conventional hierarchies. Whether he was playing a gangster, policeman, soldier, revolutionary, father or ordinary man, he displayed a great range.
In Khamoshi: The Musical, he played the deaf father of Manisha Koirala’s character. Here, an actor famous for his voice had to communicate through silence, gesture and expression. In Agni Sakshi, he played an obsessive and abusive husband, earning another National Film Award. Three National Awards in nine years — for Parinda, Krantiveer and Agni Sakshi — testify to a range considerably greater than the public image of the angry rebel might suggest.
And then came another surprise. The man associated with rage could be very funny. As Uday Shetty in Welcome, Nana demonstrated that his timing was as formidable in comedy as in drama. His later career reinforced the breadth of the performer. Ab Tak Chhappan gave him the morally complicated encounter specialist Sadhu Agashe. Apaharan earned him another Filmfare Award for a negative role. Raajneeti showed that he could occupy a large political ensemble without being overwhelmed by it. And in Marathi cinema, Dr. Prakash Baba Amte: The Real Hero and Natsamrat demonstrated his continuing allegiance to the language and theatrical tradition from which he had emerged. Natsamrat, in particular, saw the great stage actor confronting age, memory, loneliness and the cruelty of a life that has moved beyond him.
There was another dimension to Nana that helped create his unusual credibility: he seemed more comfortable with ordinary people than with celebrity culture. He farmed. He supported farmers. He retained an interest in the simple, physical realities of life. His personal life, too, was largely kept away from the relentless machinery of celebrity. There was also the soldier in him. His preparation for Prahaar involved extensive military training, and his connection with the Territorial Army continued well beyond the film. He trained with the Maratha Light Infantry and was associated with the Army during the Kargil period, eventually attaining the rank of honorary lieutenant colonel.
Nana Patekar’s rebellion was not simply rebellion for its own sake. At its best, it was rooted in a belief that certain things deserved to be defended: courage, national service, the dignity of the ordinary citizen, and the right to speak against what one believes to be wrong.
Cinema produces stars by the dozen. It produces memorable actors somewhat less frequently. But occasionally, it produces a personality whose voice seems to belong not merely to a character but to a larger public conscience.
Nana Patekar was one such personality. Even in the film world, we need more such people.
(Pavan K Varma is an author, diplomat, and former member of Parliament (Rajya Sabha). The views expressed are personal)
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