Existential musical drama by Satyajit Rey based on the novel of the same name by Tarashankar Banerjee. Yesterday I again received a gift from Destiny, looking, even wrong - immersed in the brilliant and piercing cinema of the far 50s of the last century, presented by the brilliant director of true cinema, Satyajit Rey
The action takes place in the twenties of the last century in the palace in Nimtita, in Bengal. Smoking a hookah, on the terrace sits Bishwambhar Roy, the last of the Bengali feudal lords. From the next house, the sounds of music are heard - this nouveau riche neighbor arranges a holiday on the occasion of the traditional rite of initiation of his son. A subtle connoisseur of music, Bishwambhar Roy once gathered the best musicians, singers and dancers for a ceremony in honor of his son. But today his wife and son are no longer alive, and he is ruined. Wanting to “put in place” a pretentious neighbor who boasts of his musical taste, Roy arranges his last grand concert, in which he invests everything up to a penny. For the last time, he enjoys music and winning.
The majestic and proud Bishwambhar Roy still belongs to the feudal lords of Bengal in the late 20s of the XX century, but his true greatness and wealth have already been left in the past, and once flourishing possessions, including the palace house, are declining. The only passion with which Roy is completely and without a trace, in which he surpasses anyone, even his prosperous neighbor Mahim Ganguli, is the arrangement of musical competitions in a special salon of a majestic architectural complex, something resembling an empty tomb of the pharaohs - a music room.
It cannot but be admired how the world-famous Bengali director Satyajit Rey, in the late 50s, predicted the theme of the beautiful and sophisticated decline of the aristocracy and the intellectual elite, which will then be glorified by Luchino Visconti (starting with "Leopard"), and Joseph Lowsey (first in ). And how much differently in the Music Room than the musical and dance numbers from the commercial Indian films familiar to us from the Soviet film distribution, absolutely amazing divertissement interludes are perceived, infallible in rhythm and virtuoso in execution.
The face of Bishvambhara Roy, as if embroidered on the cloth back of a chair, is as gray and bumpy as the stone from which the terrace is built under the feet. The viewer looks at it like a dead face. And when, it would seem, the eye is no longer able to distinguish on it, the lips move and call the servant. Only when the servant comes do you realize that he is still alive and is about to speak again. And then we follow the servant up the innumerable steps to where the man sits, and the servant tells him to drink from the glass with the lid, and he asks the servant about his elephant, about the horse; and then he gets up and goes down the stairs, on which the servant just climbed, and goes to where his elephant stands - we see this elephant, because there is a huge space between the old man's house and the elephant's pen; after visiting the elephant, the old man slowly goes to where his white horse stands, and around - and the man has done nothing here, although he has long ago done nothing. And here he is again raving into the house, into the bedroom, which is all - a solid black polished bed with four columns for a canopy, and a lace curtain waving on a tiny window, and photos - a lot of photos within the frame.
And then gradually you begin to comprehend what this film is about, with the piercing beauty of its dilapidated rooms and old carpets, antique glasses and perennial wine, brilliant candelabras with fading candles, the old man and ancient music. The film is the thoughts that once again overcome the old man who lived here and still lives - decrepit, dried up in anticipation of rain. And there is no dislike for this man, despite his selfish life, intertwined with incense bracelets around the wrists of his feminine hands, merged with money, home, elephant and horse: after all, he has something that others, no less rich than he, do not have. And we see these houses -- these huge old houses, where there are more servants than any other village, these halls that have seen so many receptions, these porches that have received so many carriages -- but none of them have what this house has: music. With music he achieved everything that makes people human, he loved it, he demonstrated it, talked about it, protected it, and in this he was also selfish.
This music is the whole movie. It sounds even when silence reigns around for a long time, when life stops and everywhere - a huge, lifeless desert, and music is so beautiful that the feeling of beauty takes your breath away. Here she hesitates, lurking and waiting, then crawls up and suddenly rushes to the beast - then calm, then furious and rampant in rage, now waiting, then worried and rushing somewhere, and the film is reliably squeezed by her dense consonances. They pour from a quiet corner under the stairs, from a stone bench standing alone at the entrance; fill a gloomy, candelabra-lined dusty room; and descend forever with rolled up carpets; and bring such unspeakable loneliness that you feel that the last thing that comes to us is the loneliness in the pursuit of art, the loneliness inherent in the greatest art. The rhythms and themes of music and dance go beyond the plot and character, although they are conditioned by them, appearing in the film precisely when the banalities and trifles of everyday life are experienced, overcome.
In the chaos inherent in the film, music brings discipline, orderliness, harmony. Its themes are time and death, beauty and its perpetuation in art. In the two episodes inspired by King Lear, we encounter the inevitable. But nothing ends with death. Music is constantly playing, and when the old man leaves, his house and his music remain. This is an inconsolable film. The air itself in it is sometimes discharged to a painful tartness, like oversweetened wine, and sometimes thickens to a suffocating dryness.
The film is interesting, tragic and it has some incredibly piercing music. It seems to me that the director found the old school of performers who not only played, but were music themselves as instruments.
A brilliant film by the outstanding director Satyajit Rey, a classic of world cinema. A story on a par with Chekhov's plays. Delightful acting, brilliant work of the operator, chic Indian music, impeccable editing. Cinema for an understanding viewer (black and white), it will not suit fans of only entertaining films; - "Those who are satisfied with comics, Dostoevsky does not need anything".
10 out of 10
P.S. - "I'm an old man, but in a drought I'm fit to be a child waiting for the rain."