Although the days are long gone since its novelty sent legions of matted-haired hipsters scurrying, chillums in hand, to seek illumination in ashrams and pagodas, Conrad Rook’s 1972 adaptation of Herman Hesse’s novel remains a majestic, if languorous, spectacle. Cinematographer Sven Nykvist renders Brahmin Siddhartha’s roving quest for self-knowledge in sun-bleached ascetic whites, brilliant oranges, and pale blue skies reflected in a moss-green Ganges. Indeed, his supersaturated colors make the textured Indian landscape a much more engaging presence than Siddhartha (Shashi Kapoor) is. But leaden characters aren’t the only problem here — clunkily grandiloquent expository dialogue that sounds dubbed even though it’s not, grossly simplified pseudo-profundities, and far too many stoned longueurs also litter your path. Siddhartha is buoyed by a captivating visuality, and the best scenes are the ones that don’t look scripted: vérité tableaux of glassy-eyed, smoke-puffing saddhus or rococo court scenes replete with gyrating dancers, sumptuous feasts, and leaping tongues of flame. Still, the way to enlightenment never seemed so heavyhanded. (85 minutes)