Satyajit Ray is best known for his Apu Trilogy of films, despite the fact these films are so hard to find. Netflix doesn’t carry them. I have never seen them, though I am currently considering purchasing a South Korean import on ebay to up my film intellect, but I don’t want to buy a shoddy release especially since Criterion’s release of The Music Room marks the first Satyajit Ray title added to the collection, leading me to believe the likelihood of Criterion issuing the Apu Trilogy fully restored, and on Blu-ray, has increased greatly.
However, we’re here to discuss The Music Room, but the fact this was my first time seeing one of Ray’s films is something I believe to be as important as my thoughts on the film itself. As with so many foreign films, this is not just another story, but another glimpse into a culture unlike my own. I was recently chastised in one of my film reviews for referring to a movie as lifeless. A commenter told me the “film itself is not a living being”. He obviously didn’t understand the metaphor, but at the same time I would almost dismiss the idea it is a metaphor at all.
Film’s are living and breathing. They have a life of their own, the lives of the characters and the life of the story. They invite us in, they teach us and their meanings change depending on how impressionable their audience is and perhaps how informed their audience is. With The Music Room I am virtually a blank slate when it came to Indian culture, more specifically to the era Ray explores as his story centers on Biswambhar Roy (Chhabi Biswas), a fallen feudal lord who watches as a river eats away at his land and his money begins to dry up. What money he has, he spends on his appreciation and love for music, inviting only the best musicians to come and entertain he and his guests in his ornate music room.
However, the age of the aristocrat is dying and taking on a new face, which is exemplified as Roy looks off in the distance at one of his prized elephants. No sooner is it engulfed in dust by a passing truck bearing the name of Ganguli & Co., owned by an up-and-coming moneylender’s son, a man Roy looks down on as the modern culture has moved in with little respect for those before it. Roy cringes at the clanging of electrical machines in the distance and is reminded of days past spent with his wife and son.
Chhabi Biswas’ performance in this film is excellent, rife with pain and agony, but equally telling when joyful. The opening of the film does feature a lengthy flashback that is a bit difficult to pick out upon first viewing, in large part due to the fact Biswas doesn’t exactly “de-age” all that well (something Mira Nair also mentions in an included interview), but I would also attribute this to my disconnect from the culture at the heart of the film, but the film’s impact remains as we all must do our best to keep up with the world around us or sit back and let it pass us by.
Performances and story aside, I can’t say this is a film I will likely revisit any time soon. Not due to anything more than my hopeful exploration of more of Ray’s films beforehand. The same goes for an included 131-minute documentary chronicling Ray’s career. I’ll admit I did not watch this documentary for the sheer reason I haven’t explored enough of Ray’s work to warrant any spoiling of his motivations. I don’t wish to learn more about the artist before I’ve had the chance to enjoy the art. How can I judge a work objectively if I already know too much about the person behind it?
I did, however, explore the other included features, which include informative brand new interviews with Ray biographer Andrew Robinson and the previously mentioned interview with Mira Nair, director of Monsoon Wedding. The Robinson piece specifically deals with a lot of the culture aspects of the film, which will help with multiple viewings, allowing viewers such as myself a greater understanding of what is on screen, intensifying the already tragic story at the film’s core. Finally there is a 1981 French roundtable discussion with Ray, film critic Michel Ciment and director Claude Sautet that aired more than 20 years after the film’s original India release, marking the first time it was released in France, which should give you a good idea of how inaccessible Ray’s films have truly been.
The audio and video quality are impressive, though some scratches and specks can be seen. The Music Room, as you probably surmised, relies heavily on the musical numbers — though it’s important to note this is not a Bollywood film — as well as the atmospheric sounds throughout.
It is said in the features this is likely the best primer to Satyajit Ray’s work. For that I am happy to have made it the first film of his I’ve seen and I hope to see more. I, however, can’t recommend this as a blind buy, though I hope my descriptions alone suffice in suggesting to some that will immediately be drawn to this film to give it a chance. It’s a true piece of art and one to be respected and learned from. I look forward to exploring more of Ray’s work in the, hopefully, near future.
