Muzykanci
Poland, 1960, black and white, 9 mins
When Sight & Sound magazine ran the fifth of its decennial critics’ Top Ten polls of what was alleged to be the best films ever made, they extended the invitation to filmmakers for the first time. As one of the leading arthouse cinema lights at the time (1992) Krzystof Kieślowski’s list came under especial scrutiny, not least because nestling amongst the expected favourites (Bresson, Tarkovsky, Fellini, Welles, Ken Loach) was an obscure nine-minute non-fiction short by Kazimierz Karabasz, one of Kieślowski’s teachers at the Łódź Film School and an acknowledged major influence on his whole filmic philosophy.
Watching The Musicians with no prior knowledge of the historical and cultural context, it’s initially difficult to see what the fuss was about (in addition to Kieślowski’s praise, it’s long been regarded as one of the milestones of the Polish documentary movement). It’s certainly a very engaging piece, in which a group of factory workers band together (literally) in the form of an after-hours wind and brass orchestra, but that’s practically the entire narrative content. Fans of Czech cinema will notice affinities between this troupe and the various ensembles in mid-1960s films by Miloš Forman and Ivan Passer (whose Intimate Lighting was also on Kieślowski’s list), not least the fact that they’re made up entirely of middle-aged to elderly men. But there is no commentary, and very little spoken content, so we’re told next to nothing about why they spend their leisure hours making music.
Then again, we don’t need to be, as the sheer joy of what they’re doing is obvious from the film itself. The high-contrast opening shots in the tram workshop have a hint of archetypal Socialist Realism about them, but they’re too brief to make any didactic point: they merely establish that these men are not professional musicians and are all performing voluntarily. According to Mikołaj Jazdon’s notes in the PWA set, the elaborately-moustachioed conductor has “a melodic Vilnius accent”, and his native country has a longstanding tradition of amateur music-making.
But the film’s importance rests not so much in its subject as in its style and technique. Cinematographer Stanisław Niedbalski, who had worked regularly with Karabasz since the latter’s professional debut, dispensed with conventional side lighting in favour of lighting from above, which gave the camera much more freedom in terms of positioning and movement, as there was much less chance of accidentally including one of the lights. Aside from the aesthetic benefits (many of the men are bald, and so catch the light beautifully), it also meant that Karabasz and Niedbalski were in a better position to capture the kind of fleeting moments that abound in ensemble situations like this.
Stylistically, the film begins with mostly static, carefully framed shots, initially of the men in the workshop. These are accompanied exclusively by the sound of industrial noises, broken by the whistle denoting the end of their shift, after which a single onscreen title sets the scene: “This is a film about people who have given up many an evening. At one time the ‘Brassers’ were a vast army of amateur zealots. Today, they are the last Mohicans”. We then see the same men setting up their instruments and music stands in the rehearsal space. The background sound changes to a blend of inaudible conversation, overlaid with a melodic clarinet phrase. Music is handed out, pored over and discussed. Brass instruments join the woodwind, and the cacophony gets increasingly loud until the conductor dons his glasses and taps his stand for silence. The film is already nearly half over, a fact that in itself emphasises that Karabasz is not interested in imposing an artificial narrative structure on his material: he’s already drawn eloquent parallels between the men in the workshop and the rehearsal room and the similar dedication they apply to each task.
The rehearsal proper begins with a French horn duet, and is almost immediately interrupted by the conductor. After a few tweaks to the volume and synchronisation, they start again, getting only a few bars further before the conductor complains that they’re out of tune. More adjustments, with tuba player Zygmunt’s staccato phrasing coming in for particular attention. Finally, the musicians get to play uninterrupted, and Niedbalski’s camera discovers a new-found freedom, gliding from player to player, pausing to dwell on close-ups of pursed lips over mouthpieces and fingers over keys. As the tempo increases, the camera stops moving and the cutting speeds up. But just as the music is about to reach a climax, Karabasz cuts to a slow pan around the deserted tram workshop, the music becoming muffled and distant. This unexpectedly low-key ending, at precisely the point where one would normally expect some kind of triumphalism (or at the very least an affirmative commentary making some kind of social or political point), underscores the film’s key theme: these men aren’t playing music for fame or fortune, they’re doing it for love. What more needs to be said?
- Director: Kazimierz Karabasz
- Production Manager: Andrzej Liwnicz
- Camera: Stanisław Niedbalski
- Sound: Halina Paszkowska
- Sound Editing: Lidia Zonn
- Music: The Warsaw Orchestra of Tramway Workers
- Production Company: Wytwórnia Filmów Dokumentalnych (Documentary Film Studio)
Befitting its reputation, The Musicians has been released on several different DVDs, including (at least) the French, British, American and Australian editions of The Double Life of Véronique. Visually, the transfers included on PWA’s Polish School of the Documentary: Kazimierz Karabasz (Region 0 PAL) and Artificial Eye’s The Double Life of Véronique (Region 2 PAL) are probably sourced from the same print (minor damage appears to match) but not from the same transfer, as the PWA picture is slightly cropped at the left-hand side, while the Artificial Eye is slightly cropped at the right. However, the PWA transfer is badly marred by English subtitles that are several seconds out of sync, while the Artificial Eye’s subtitles are perfectly timed. I haven’t seen Criterion’s The Double Life of Véronique (Region 1 NTSC), but given that the package is virtually identical to Artificial Eye’s offering, it’s probably safe to assume that both originated from MK2 in Paris and are therefore functionally identical. (The subtitle issue, though annoying, is not crippling – the film has very little spoken content, and hardly any that’s especially important). As for online commentary, Culture.pl‘s overview of Karabasz’ career briefly discusses The Musicians.