A fine movie with a house that's got more soul than its occupants. Imagine being walked into a house that in all it's finery appears lonely. There's debauchery and decadence, and almost a sense of tragedy lurking in the corners. As if an expensive structure has an apologetic look engulfing it. The technical brilliance of the film consumes you. With each faltering step of the protagonist, the house responds by almost losing a limb. The downfall is gradual, and the crumbling is in sync.
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I had my blu-ray player fixed to play Region A discs, the day before yesterday. And so, tonight, I picked up my copy of The Music Room from its perch next to Dabangg, dusted it off, and popped it into the player.
I know next to nothing about classical music or dance, and besides, I don't have the vocabulary to describe a movie so simply told and yet so moving. I'll instead simply quote Akira Kurosawa, "To have not seen the films of Ray is to have lived in the world without ever having seen the moon and the sun."
For years that quote is all I knew about Ray, and so it's rather appropriate then that the first image I've seen of a Ray film is the chandelier shimmering in the dark...
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