It's both an appropriate and cruel happening to have had Chaitanya Tamhane's sophomore effort stealthily stumble onto my lap at the opportune time it has. At a moment where I find myself at a junction point in my life as an emerging adult (of which I feel I'm not yet qualified to identify as one), The Disciple painstakingly realizes identifying notions about artistic, and in turn personal, pursuit that I can't help but selfishly inherit to the apt quandaries of my own. I do recognize how potentially un-unique the topicality is insofar as my inheritance of it goes, but expounding upon it as so few films depict personal specificities as they relate to me is something that gestates more like a "must" than a "want." Therefore, my high engagement with the film's cinematic machinations aren't just boosted by my identification with the material, but greatly hinge on them too. I'm actually not sure how this film might appear and render to anyone else not in my relative shared view, and although I completely vanquish viewer objectivity in art (or most things for that matter), my extreme synchronization has molded this film into an entirely different beast compared to most other works I regularly take in. So although my observation and account of Tamhane's directive gestures will remain seated in my regularly practiced form of critique, that incrementally measured barrier of removal that I retain with just about everything else, is itself now removed as I speak largely from projection. Let's see if I can precisely elucidate upon and transcribe the inside out to you all.
First, the representation and embodiment of an ascetic lifestyle that the film depicts Sharad embarking upon in his early 20s, bonded with his quest for musical ascendancy, is uncannily conceptualized as someone whose Catholic upbringing has played a preeminent role in his similar path towards artistic success in filmmaking. Though no faith is specified in Sharad's personal life, his self-inflicted restriction to excesses and indulgence (which includes a certain reclusivity in his interpersonal relationships and romantic chances) to stay undeviating in his set passage filtered to me as truly one of the only times I felt as if the screen in front of me were a burning mirror reflecting previously private experiences back unto myself. Even down to Sharad's obsessed calibration with recorded lessons during commutes or simply in suspended time. Which one can swiftly assume to be steeped in repetition to reaffirm spoken ideals and ideological truths (based upon how one decides to glean them by alignment) for constant motivational reinforcement. A practice not all that different from prayer with the actual attempts at artistic exercise the equivalent of a spiritual cleansing at church. It is exactly the same process I undergo during any moment of transit and dead time I can find, listening to and reading the rhetoric of many filmmakers and critics as I avidly scope out tidbits of information to keep me aligned in my designated route. When particular moments get especially tough for me, it is second nature at this point to retreat into the iridescent words of these teachers for enshrouded comfort. Whether I'm re-listening to those accomplished in industrial landscapes that'll likely escape my entire career or the starving independent filmmaker who ultimately persevered despite massive setback and experience with failure, their words and in turn how their experiences turned over, anchor the vessel that is my will when things get real dark and stormy out. How these casually distributed materials are gripped close goes beyond what I perceive to be their intended purpose. They function way beyond tools of education. When I have very little, these "lessons" fill out my life.
Second, it brings me to the confrontation of my aspirations. And for those who've seen the film already, where Tamhane takes Sharad in his journey is one scarily honest in its gloomy awareness of what such an ambition, no matter its devout loyalty, can and most likely result in. Not an end to the journey per say (though it might as well be), but a settlement that exists on the fringes of what was originally the goal. It's something that Sharad is seen already brushing against near the start of his quest, albeit out of sheer economic survival first, but how a temporary pit stop ultimately and suddenly becomes the crash pad is the nightmare for any aspiring artist I naturally assume as it is mine. As I currently train myself to hopefully edit media content after graduating, as a fine enough compromise to stay afloat and nurtured while keeping close enough proximity to the intended end point, Sharad's gradual slipping away and loss of passion by the doldrums of life shot like a speeding bullet to my heart. It's a real and legit fear of mine. What if the outside forces do not let me proceed and more worrying, what if I am simply just not good enough? Those around me know of my plans to one day end up in academia in the long run after my relatively brief stint of editing full time to perfectly aid my goals in independent filmmaking, which does not even have me making films full time (nor do I want to necessarily), but potentially failing to reach even that more realistic goal and being kept away from where I want my life to go is the greatest tragedy and offense in my mind. It's everyone's fear, I know, but for all that I've structured my life around this singular discipline, failing at what I wish to achieve in it obliterates me. Which of course is a very selfish thing considering the saturation of those wanting the same, but it is my truth.
There is also the equally slippery slope of blaming outside trends as the culprit for one's success. Just as it is prominent from my vantage point, the film's inclusion of an observation on the further commoditization of culture and its subsequent acceleration of artistic mediums splitting away from their "artistry" also hits too close to home. On one hand, Sharad is absolutely based in his defensive critique against this encroachment that actively endangers the art he's committed his life to, but on the other, his own reality of possibly not being skilled enough to succeed creates a stiff dilemma in who to point one's finger at in agitating the problem as it relates to the individual. Both at once probably, but Sharad's situation is too difficult to scold, either. An all too familiar concern to anybody also on a similar path, the infiltration of cinema by franchise properties and unchecked capitalistic venture has surely created real rifts in how one should mobilize in what is looking to be quite a harsher economy in the foreseeable future. As mass audiences further disengage with cinematic output they feel does not immediately satisfy their most basic needs (blame capitalism for that), work created that goes against these sad expectations, in other words "movies", become more and more vulnerable to extinction in a world that has been financially exploited to perceive such as elitist indulgences crafted solely to waste their hard earned dollars. We can blame ourselves for choosing to do this, but those who manufacture consent of this intentional decline are also to be blamed.
On the film's acuity to portraying the inner life of ascetic concentration, tt'd be relatively effortless to consider Tamhane's extended takes and use of slow-mo as immediately indicative of conjuring the trance-like meditation his film gets so right to me, and so to dispel that idea (as to also shut down that longer takes automatically let contemplation assemble), I find his ability to emulate the interior state derived not from extension, but again repetition of the established process and in this case, a minimization of sequential exposition. Sharad's many musical performances do not act as some transitional expository glue to the scenes of brief dialogue and action that betwixt them. Unlike how such scenes are almost always relegated to such in most other film works, the concerts more or less are the movie. For Tamhane's incantations are so deeply rooted within the spirit's rite of oscillation under perceived power or oppression in his overall tale of musical mastery, subjecting these scenes to the paramount of narration coalesces into a film that rightfully places tonality first, allowing for purified emphasis on how Sharad's evolving plights ultimately temper his abilities, which then permeate all throughout the rest of the film's mounting destination. A befitting formulation baffling in how well synergized it links its study of music, asceticism, and massacre of culture altogether.
At the moment this is all I can say. I'm still reeling from the film's affect and that'll surely only grow as I let it live inside with time. For myself, I don't know what awaits me, but this is also pure self centered anxiety, I recognize. Revisiting this film at a later point in time is inevitable, followed by many other rewatches after that, and my only hope then is that I can find some disassociation with it as for it to not be so painful anymore, but that too is a selfish want. I guess wanting to be a successful artist is just really that after all, a selfish want for one's selfish self.
But that's okay. It's something to hold onto.
