The Music Room Blu-ray (Criterion)

The Music Room Blu-ray

Studio: The Criterion Collection

Aug 16, 2011 Web Exclusive By Kyle Lemmon

The 1958 film The Music Room was a watershed moment for Indian director/composer/writer/producer Satyajit Ray. The slow-paced drama eschews much of the melodrama and garish musical interludes of normal Bengali films and centers its story on an aging zamindar (feudal landlord) who is fading into obsolescence. The opening shot of the film is a slow tracking shot that zooms in on a foreboding chandelier that sways in the dark. The image is meant to symbolize all that Biswambhar Roy (portrayed by popular Indian actor Chhabi Biswas) holds dear, and everything that is crumbling beneath his feet. Ray is critical of feudalism here, but he also casts a respectful eye on the old man as he eats sherbet, smokes hookah like Alice in Wonderland's lounging caterpillar, and ravenously consumes music. After all, Ray once said, "villains bore me."

The titular music room compels the man to fritter away his wife's jewels for private recitals from classical musicians. He grips to this last vestige of his fading empire with all his spirit and corporeal nature. Criterion Collection's new Blu-ray transfer of Ray's masterpiece is a little rough around the edges, but it's the best that can be salvaged from a second-generation fine-grain master positive (made directly from the original camera negative). You can thank the Academy Film Archive's Satyajit Ray Preservation Project for their painstaking efforts to restore as many of the Bengali artist's motion pictures as they can. This is a necessary job since Ray shot all of his films on nonflammable "safety" films based on triacetate, which can deteriorate quickly from the ravages of India's hot and moist temperatures.

Ray's fair commentary on class struggle is less subtle than his work on the Apu Trilogy. This is a rather simple story of one man and Ray filmed it in between the second and third of the Apu films. Main actor Biswas holds the film up in admirable fashion. There is one sequence in particular that is quietly mesmeric. The landowner is relaxing and taking in the sounds of his nouveau-riche moneylending neighbor's music party. He softly lifts up one of his fingers at the end of a 16-beat tāla, which wealthy (read: snobbish) music aficionados at the time were known for doing. This attention to character detail is found in Ray's transfixing shot selections as well. A spider, drowned grasshopper, dusty elephant, a chugging generator, and toppled model ship are all used as symbolic devices throughout the film. Each instance is not met by a lingering shot or a flurry of orchestration from composer Vilayat Khan. It's entirely possible that some viewers will miss these moments on a first viewing.

Satyajit Ray works in such a way. He is a methodical and patient director, but never sluggish with the scripting of events or pedantic with his themes. He adapted The Music Room from a beloved short story by Tarasanka Banerji and truly fleshes out the details and gives the main character less melodramatic tones. Ray was highly critical of India's love for melodrama and only bowed to his distributor's wishes for music and dancing if it served the overall through-line. It does. He achieves this quite well with an uncompromising story that often resembles a Greek drama, in that some of the most terrible events happen off-screen.

Overall, music is the connective tissue for the narrative. There are three concerts that showcase different modes of Indian classical performance in the film. The first is the Lucknow thumri (a romantic, sensual tune usually performed by a female), the second is a Muslim khyal (ornate singing, typically done by a male virtuoso), and the third and last concert is called a kathak dance (an ancient narrative ballet for a soloist). Each musical piece has something singular to offer the viewer and they push forward the narrative. This was a revolutionary concept in Ray's time and even for some modern Indian films. Ray matches the moods of his main character with the songs he chooses here. It's another set of reasons to check out The Music Room. It and the Apu triptych serve as excellent entry points into Bengali film and they still hold up after more than 50 years because of their accessibility and willingness to mine the depths of human psychology.

Extras: The Music Room comes with a slim supplemental booklet, sporting photographs and credits, a new critical essay, and vintage promotional material. All of the disc's high-definition extras are worth checking out. The main attraction is a two-hour 1984 documentary entitled Satyajit Ray. It's quite extensive and covers Ray's personal and professional lives with equal alacrity. (www.criterion.com/films/27657-the-music-room)

Author rating: 8/10

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Average reader rating: 8/10