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Reviews
Nastroyshchik (2004)
Tunes More than Pianos
Kira Muratova's The Tuner is a darkly humorous account of the trust developed and deceit experienced by several eccentric characters during a brief vignette of their daily lives. Filmed in crisp black and white in settings that place the action anywhere within the past forty years, the film seems older than it is, and only the infrequent use of cellular phones and a fleeting moment of computer wizardry remind the viewer that he is watching a contemporary film. The monochrome is not without reason, however. The theme of duplicity for personal gain is timeless, and any era could reasonably play host to the film's plot.
Every character in The Tuner is a bit of an oddball, and each has an exceptional element of depth, even those who appear only briefly. The talented but scheming central character Andrei is content to enjoy himself while his complicated plan develops and unfolds. His position as a piano tuner is primarily a guise, but he nonetheless plays and tunes with professional ability. His lover is also wily and manipulative, and has a very evident but seemingly irrelevant preoccupation with abortion. Lyuba is serially taken for a fool, as her desperation for companionship leads her to be overly trusting. Anna Sergeevna applies her motherly affections to her dog Mikka and to Andrei, whom she refuses to blame even after he takes her for her savings. Even minor characters like the restroom attendant with a vibrant personality are developed much in the brief time they are on screen.
The most interesting minor characters are found in the Central bank in the film's penultimate scene, characters whose role is more to characterize the film than to be characterized by it. As she goes to collect her "winnings" from a lottery drawing that had been fabricated by Andrei, Anna Sergeevna is informed by an indifferent young teller that she is mistaken, and receives the harsh news that she has been deceived from a manager with an even harsher voice. As she leaves the bank, she encounters identical twins with identical mannerisms, and is unsettled by their doubleness, just as she is by Andrei's duplicity.
Perhaps one of the greatest elements of the film is that, as in real life, it seems to take place within the context of events irrelevant to the plot itself. When Andrei goes to collect Anna Sergeevna's cups, he is mistaken for two individuals with whom the proprietor clearly has illicit business. Representing this aspect of the film, characters often move through small spaces, such as that which separates the two floors of Anna Sergeevna's house and the entrance to Andrei's loft, demonstrating the larger world around the action that the audience never sees. Perhaps this is the significance of the "tuner." A tuner adjusts instruments to focus on a note. In this film, Andrei adjusts Anna's reality and expectations, and focuses the audience on this strange snapshot of life in the greater context of the surrounding world, which is never shown but about which the viewer is constantly reminded.
Pro urodov i lyudey (1998)
A Retroactive Exposé
Of Freaks and Men is a bizarre but nonetheless fascinating period film set in turn-of-the- century Saint Petersburg. The most immediately noticeable quality of the film is its unique style. Set almost entirely in sepia tone, the film includes dialogue and a full soundtrack wrapped around silent-era title cards. Freaks does not merely comply with the dress and verbiage of late Tsarist Russia–it truly feels old.
The story itself, however, is certainly not the stuff of early Russian film. The morbid tale of Johann, the impossibly cold, seemingly emotionless, and sometimes murderous pornography kingpin, breaking apart and exploiting two families for the production of smutty photographs and videos, is far more representative of contemporary themes in Russian film of the late 1990s. It portrays an outdated "dark reality" as if the cinema of the time had been willing to do, with a morbid twist. Johann's unflinching homicides as a matter of momentary convenience, an old "nanny" beating nude women with a switch, and a maid exposing herself to her Siamese-twin charges behind her employer's back all contribute to the films taboo, yet darkly humorous air.
The humor is not so easily found in the plight of Johann's subjects, who through a series of legal and illicit dealings have been left at his mercy. The innocent young Leeza, so excited to receive new music records at the beginning of the film, is reduced to posing naked for sadist pornography. The talented Siamese twin brothers, nurtured by an enlightened and loving father, perform for crowded theaters as "freaks." None, however, can escape Johann, a state of imprisonment that is reflected in Of Freaks and Men's cinematic style. The dull sepia tone traps the story in shades of brown, a muddy state that traps the palette between the bright hues of color and the crispness of black-and-white. The settings are also largely indoors, and the cautious opening and closing of doors is the focus of several shots, implying that nothing inside is supposed to escape. The film even feels imprisoned in time, as events like Johann's calling for "Nanna" and the arrival and departure of the train that is perpetually refueling outside Leeza's window repeat themselves prominently and seemingly without end.
Unlike many films of the Soviet era, it is difficult to interpret Of Freaks and Men. It is not a story of hope, but its surprisingly light atmosphere and ending render it not quite one of despair either. Nor does it make an obvious judgment on society in pre-Revolutionary Russia. The twisted money-grabbing tendencies of Johann may well be a finger pointed at Russia's new upper class, whose wealth is as dirty as that earned from exploitation and smut. This is not a film for all tastes, but its highly creative style and cinematography, and unique subject matter make it extremely interesting, even for the faint of heart.
Idi i smotri (1985)
Come and See, but Don't Return
Kilmov's 1985 film Come and See is a harrowing war drama that marks an unmistakable departure from war films of the Thaw era that preceded it. Whereas earlier films used World War II largely as a backdrop for psychological exploration of the people who lived through and after its trials, Come and See is truly a film about the War. The title, an allusion to the destruction wrought by the four horsemen of the apocalypse, relates the film to the 1962 film Ivan's Childhood, in which these apocalyptic harbingers were also featured, in addition to featuring a young man ripped too early into maturity as the central protagonist.
From the beginning, Come and See is a series of violent, arduous events almost totally devoid of respite. Florya, the protagonist, finds a gun buried with a corpse in the sand near his village, and uses it to join the Belorussian Partisan Forces. When he is left behind in reserve, the reality of war's harshness settles in as the camp is bombed, his village is massacred, and he is tossed among seemingly endless episodes of death and destruction, ever pursued by the lazy circling of buzzard-like German airplanes.
The devastation is so constant that Florya's development throughout the ordeal is manifested largely in an almost perpetually present mask of fear stretched across his face, at times pierced by cries of anguish. In one memorable scene, Florya watches as Nazi troops slaughter an entire village by locking them in a church, lobbing grenades inside, setting the structure on fire, opening fire with machine guns, and initiating a final conflagration with a flamethrower. Their actions are quite literally overkill, completely gratuitous violence, reminiscent of the film as a whole, which shows many more scenes of violence than are necessary merely to express how much destruction the Germans wrought in Belorussia. Each one is nonetheless meaningful, portraying how awful the conflict really was for peasants and their families.
Come and See achieves its effect through powerful visuals and sounds. The harrowing atmosphere created by the events on screen is echoed by the jarring buzzing of tinnitus, airplanes, flies, and machine guns, and unsettling situations are in turn mirrored by unsettling shots. When Florya is left behind in the woods and finds Glasha, two young children in an environment that is distinctly not child-friendly are framed dead-center during their conversation, an unnerving method of filming that marks the scene as all wrong. This combination of disconcerting plot, shots, and sound creates a film that is comprehensively disturbing, but very powerful.
This relative torture of the viewer is important to make clear the anguish constantly bearing down on Florya, the result of which is underscored in the final scene. Florya, who has lost his village, family, friends, and innocence in a very short period of time, fires his rifle–his blessing and curse–for the first time in the film at a portrait of Hitler. As he fires, he imagines the Nazi rise to power occurring in reverse, but when it reverses far enough to become a baby Hitler on his mother's lap, Florya cannot bring himself to fire. His face has become old and grizzled from his harsh ordeal, but he retains his humanity despite his anger and what he has seen. There is no happy ending to this film, but given all that has happened, it ends as hopefully as it reasonably could, with Florya running to join the ranks of his comrades in the woods, leaving the destruction–at least temporarily–behind. As a whole Come and See depicts physical and emotional devastation from beginning to end, but is nonetheless worth seeing for a realistic portrayal of the most grotesque horrors of war.
Voskhozhdenie (1977)
Many Shades from Simple Black and White
Shepitko's The Ascent portrays the literal and metaphorical journey of two Russian soldiers deep into enemy territory and into the depths of their consciences. Sent to find food for a hungry division of partisan soldiers fighting Germans in Belarus during World War II, Sotnikov and Rybak make their way across a wintry landscape, attempting to evade German squads.
The film was made in 1977, but is filmed in stark black and white. This format, in coordination with the bleak snow-covered landscape, makes the beginning of the film almost completely two-tone: black soldiers on white snow. The motion of the camera complements this with shots that call attention to the contrast between white and black, an unmistakable symbolism that refers to several dichotomies represented by the two principal characters. Throughout the beginning, Sotnikov is sick, marking him immediately and physically as different from Rybak, who selfishly tells him he never should have come. The differences between the two men only grow when, while fleeing German troops, Sotnikov is shot in the leg, spilling dark blood onto the white snow. It is almost as if all darkness leaves him, then, an idea reinforced as Rybak drags him into the woods, covering him in snow and rendering him completely white.
The moral purity that distinguishes Sotnikov from Rybak becomes more apparent from this point on, after which the film also largely abandons the black-and-white motif–its symbolic work being done–in favor of shades of gray. These seem to represent the varying degrees of truth and betrayal demonstrated by the new characters who are introduced, from the innocent mother who houses the soldiers to the headman who worked for the Germans for fear of his life: light collides with dark.
Upon their eventual discovery by German troops, the two partisans face very different interrogations. Unwilling to betray his cause, Sotnikov reveals no information and withstands terrible torture, whereas Rybak proves immediately pliant and even jumps at the opportunity to join the German police in exchange for his life. The illness, wounding, and torture that bring Sotnikov ever closer to death reinforce his inner need to be true to himself and his cause, a need that leads him even to attempt self-sacrifice to save the prisoners who are condemned to be hanged with him, giving him a Jesus-like aura as he is led up a hill to his death. Unlike the pure Sotnikov, Rybak betrays his cause and himself by joining the Germans rather than face the death his ostensible convictions would earn him, earning jeers as a "Judas," from the Belorussian villagers. In the last shot, with a final scream, Rybak realizes that–in the culmination of Shepitko's incredible journey through the visual–he truly is the black to Sotnikov's white, completely incapable of holding true to himself, unable to muster the will to escape the Germans who have fomented his betrayal by either committing suicide or running away through even an open gate. All of this internal struggle, revelation, and symbolism is built slowly and brilliantly up by the director from the mere initial binary of black and white.
Svoy sredi chuzhikh, chuzhoy sredi svoikh (1974)
A Nod to the Past
At Home Among Strangers, a Stranger Among his Own is a rollicking action and adventure film that nonetheless calls attention to deeply important themes in Russian history. Set directly after the Russian Civil War, the film looks and feels very much like an American Western, embodying motifs of greed, justice, honor, and betrayal. In the film, a shipment of gold being sent to Moscow for the purchase of food supplies is intercepted by a band of train robbers, who are themselves infiltrated by a Red veteran–accused of trying to steal the gold–out to see justice done and clear his name, and by the murderous villain who framed him. Meanwhile, the local Cheka attempts to solve the crime, leading to numerous chases and gunfights.
Along with the action and suspense that drive the film's plot, At Home Among Strangers explores the challenges in Russia following the Red victory over the Whites. After the war, an entirely new struggle of rebuilding a divided country begins. The film showcases victorious but overwhelmed reds, defeated but still greedy Whites, and bandits surviving however they can, bearing no political or ideological affiliation. The chairman of the Cheka embodies the struggle of uniting a country made up of such disparate factions; he struggles to do everything that must be done to transition from wartime to socialist peace. Likewise, a former cavalry officer grapples with settling finances, doing his part for peacetime when the battlefield is all he knows. Finally, demonstrating the fundamental divisions within Russian society, the hero Shilov struggles to retain the trust of his fellows, who know that his brother fought for the White army.
Stylistically, this "ostern" pays homage not only to the popular American cinema it emulates, but also to previous triumphs of Russian film. A scene in which machine guns are fired from atop cliffs at the water below recalls the final minutes of the Vasilyev Brothers' Chapaev, and some scenes in the movie, like flashes of comrades-in-arms celebrating their victory amid feelings of betrayal, and an image of a wagon tumbling down a hill as the exhausted Shilov makes his way down a similar decline to his waiting comrades, are unmistakable nods to the montage style made famous by Eisenstein and his contemporaries. When the gold is finally returned and old friends regain their mutual trust, shots of the men celebrating the end of the war are interspersed with those of them celebrating the safe return of their valuables. Ironically, their glee over the gold is matched only by the joy they had taken in their victory over such material possessions, and the superimposition serves to remind audiences that now, even amid all their struggles, wealth and camaraderie go hand in hand, and that hard-earned gains are for the benefit of all.
Mne dvadtsat let (1965)
The Changing of the Guard
Khutsiev's I Am Twenty is a frank exploration of the generation of Russians coming of age in the 1960s, and a portrayal of their struggle to find a place in the world. The film focuses on 23-year-old Sergei, his two closest friends, and his love interest Anya. All four of them face the disappointments of entering an adult world with wholly unexpected challenges and little knowledge of how to meet them. Slava attempts to remain chummy with his childhood friends as he tries to raise a child of his own, Kolia resists party politics at his research job, and Anya cannot take the responsibility of matching her words and actions. Sergei himself struggles to take life seriously, so unsure of the road that lies ahead of him that he has little idea what should be important.
A recurring theme is the difficulty of finding direction and learning from one's elders. As Sergei says, the war has left Russia such that "almost all of us have no fathers," and those fortunate enough to speak with fathers can learn little from them. Anya's father resigns himself to the point of view that young people want to make their own decisions, and Sergei's vision of his own deceased father reminds viewers that the previous generation were themselves directionless young men when they died. Even the film's mechanics lack direction. Camera movements are often sudden, sometimes seemingly random, and events that are portrayed lack orchestration or integration into the plot–Sergei's unplanned chase through Moscow and the poetry reading respectively, for two examples.
The movie leaves viewers without definite direction, but not without hope. The Moscow of I am Twenty is vibrant and beautiful. Streets are clean, orderly, and bustling with industry. Everything is bright, from the metro to Anya's face during the expository chase through the city, to Sergei's shirt during his early morning walk in Part II. Above all, everything–like the institute where characters study and work like their parents before them–is enduring. Most importantly, viewers are left with the promise that the revolution that drives this beautiful vision of Moscow will continue. I Am Twenty was released under the title of Lenin's Guard, and at the film's end this title takes meaning. Still unsure about his future, Sergei nonetheless discovers the importance of the Leninist principles that lead him on, and of his close friends. As the three comrades split up, Khutsiev inserts a shot of three soldiers walking together to relieve the old guard of Lenin's mausoleum. The symbolism is clear: whatever direction they take, the new generation will take the place of the old as guardians of Lenin's legacy.
Sudba cheloveka (1959)
A Powerful Portrayal of Humanity
Destiny of a Man is an extremely genuine exploration of a Russian soldier's experience during the "Great Patriotic War," that strips him of everything he loves. Director Sergei Bondarchuk portrays a character whose struggles, sadness, and heroism feel astonishingly real. His acting brings audiences through a series of scenarios that demonstrate the pain and suffering caused by the conflict at home and on the front.
The film is a continuation of the departure in the late 1950s from the Stalin Era's socialist realism into the postwar period of actual realism, in which characters act based on believable motives whether or not they follow the party line. Sokolov survives innumerable atrocities, bravely facing his Nazi tormentors, not for Mother Russia, but for the love of his family. In fact, the state plays very little role in the film at all, and it is very much the story of its protagonist, a story that is emotionally relevant in a very universal way.
The film is honest and humble, but proceeds with a powerful style that underscores its raw humanity. It is marked by a motif of elevation, with Sokolov's emotions manifested in the highs and lows of shots and locations throughout his ordeal. He meets his wife while building a house, standing high above the ground. In scenes of suffering, including one in which he must lie on the ground in a Nazi detention camp, he is low to the ground, looking up at the imagined members of the family he so wishes to see. Likewise he ascends through his village to be reunited with his family, he reaches the depths of despair as he descends into the crater where his house stood.
In the end, the message is a positive one. Much like Veronika in the earlier film The Cranes are Flying, Sokolov begins to rebuild his life around an adopted son who has also lost everything in the war. Troubles continue to plague the man and his country, but he is not alone, a simple message that matches the humanity woven throughout the film.
Deputat Baltiki (1937)
A Fresh Take on Soviet Film
Baltic Deputy affords a largely unseen perspective on the 1917 Revolution: that of Dmitri Polezhaev, a scientist who–exceptionally–publicly advocated the Soviet ideal during the early days of Lenin's revolution. Although the plot of the film is often confusing, it is on the whole a very interesting and fresh portrayal of the struggle for communism against adversity. At no point in the film is its Soviet agenda unclear; Polezhaev is the clear protagonist–with science, truth, and the common man's best interests at heart. His adherents are kind and intelligent, and no visual or dialogue even so much as implies a clear motive for the actions of his detractors. Unlike many Soviet films, however, Baltic Deputy does not portray a group of underdogs or a simple folk hero, but rather an esteemed scientist and professor–a character who would usually appear as a villain–who must struggle against the group of intellectual elites to which he belongs. The central conflict, therefore, is not between the people and their monolithic, alien enemy, but between a man and his former colleagues. Its uniqueness gives Baltic Deputy interest. Like much other Soviet media, it champions working for the good of the people, condemns the bourgeois elite, and glorifies the work of revolutionaries, but it does so in a new way.
Baltic Deputy, however, is not perfect. The plot is often difficult to follow due to its convention of giving equal time and emphasis to all events, whether crucial or merely supportive and emotion is concentrated at awkward moments to force the party line. Polezhaev's call from Lenin, and his impassioned speech to the Petrograd Soviet are examples of critical scenes that emphasize the Soviet message, but are framed inadequately by emotionally dull transitions. Even considering its cinematic shortcomings, however, Baltic Deputy portrays a side of Soviet film that is often unseen, and worthy of recognition.
Zemlya (1930)
Collective Relief in Dovzhenko's Earth
Dovzhenko's Earth is a glorification of collectivization, portraying the struggle of honest poor farmers against the greed of the wealthier kulaks. Working together, the field workers bring home a tractor and–in a montage sequence–harvest wheat, mill the grain, make dough, and bake bread, demonstrating the strength of the collective. Dovzhenko fortifies his endorsement with emotion, including ancestral respect at the beginning, and great compassion at the end.
The real virtue of this film comes in the form of its cinematography. It manages to reflect, through its slow, rhythmic tempo, the atmosphere of daily labor in a hot field, making the film seem slow and lazy in a way that is not truly lazy at all. During the opening sequences, the audience can practically feel the hot, stagnant air of the open fields, and when the much- awaited tractor finally arrives, you can feel the relief of the workers, whose hair flutters in the refreshing wind created by the machine. Such style is a powerful metaphor for the collectivization the movie so strongly advocates.
There is also a great deal of focus on faces in Earth, and the way the shots that contain them are constructed contributes heavily to the emotional impact of the film. The earnest perseverance of Basil, the frustrating complacency of Bilokin, the anger of Basil's father, and the heartbreak of his fiancée, are captured beautifully in a multitude of close shots at key moments in the film.
Finally, Earth derives great benefit from the heavy symbolism it contains, often alluding to the resistance of the old world against the success of the collective Soviet ideal. The struggle of the common people, for example, is shown as Basil is attacked by the Kulak Thomas, and their ultimate victory is demonstrated when they disregard the villain's feverish confession, knowing that he cannot bring them down. The priest who calls for the impious–whose crime is to celebrate life rather than death–to be smitten, much like the priest in Potemkin, resembles the deceitful Rasputin, another instance of distrust in the old world.
Despite its often-contrived dialogue, Earth makes an emotionally charged case for collectivization, and an even stronger impression on cinema.
Oktyabr (1927)
October, a Revolution
As dubious as may be its initial claim to be a completely accurate historical depiction, Eisenstein's October is nonetheless a tremendous creation, expertly weaving its clear message through epic stagings and symbolic montage. Every scene in the film is designed to draw viewers into the Bolshevik ethos, from the heart-wrenching deaths of protesters and their horses at the hands of machine guns and bourgeoisie umbrellas to the triumphant arrest of the provisional government upon the storming of the Winter Palace.
Among October's most striking characteristics is its use of montage. Early in the film, scenes of the WWI front show the suffering of Russian troops. Later, as distinguished figures march through the opulent Winter Palace to form the provisional government, the "historical" footage is punctuated by scattered shots of a peacock flaunting its plumage. Likewise, as Kerensky ponders his own grandeur, he is superimposed with a statue of Napoleon, a ruler who famously fell at Russia's hands. Most powerfully, the statue of Emperor Aleksandyr III is dismantled at the start of the film, and seems to reassemble itself as the bourgeois provisional government assumes power. The symbolism is used to great effect, and clearly demonstrates the movie's thematic take on many events in the film.
Shostakovich's excellent soundtrack is an incredible asset to October. The score highlights each scene's mood, infusing the film with sadness, excitement, and the joy of victory. Sounds played over the music further reinforce the film's theme. At various points, viewers hear people marching, crowds cheering, and guns rattling. Not only does this engage the audience, but it also gives the impression that in a film of limited sounds, only those made communally–by the Soviet people as a whole–were truly important.
October does conveniently portray the Bolsheviks' rise to power in an evidently idealized manner, but it does so with great skill and grace, producing–with the aid of a large budget and thousands of extras–breathtaking (if not wholly accurate) recreations of events in the October Revolution. Soviet audiences must have been truly moved by October's cinematography and score, and future audiences will almost certainly continue to appreciate their work.
Aelita (1924)
A Brilliant Queen of Mars, but Excess Plot Mars the Queen
Aelita: Queen of Mars is many things at once. It is an avant-garde science fiction thriller and a rather unoriginal romance. It is a glorification of soviet ideals and a glimpse into the life of Muscovites in post-civil-war Russia. All of these seemingly disparate themes fuse to form a film is at times painfully slow and at others positively captivating.
To watch Aelita is to navigate a convoluted maze of subplots. In Moscow, where most of the film takes place, the audience is passed among a few settings, where we primarily watch the growing jealousy of the protagonist Loss, whose wife is being wooed by Ehrlich, a man whose gluttonous yearning for the exploitive excesses of pre-Soviet Russia exposes him as the principal villain.
The monotony of the mundane and often superfluous scenes in Moscow is broken, however, by the truly innovative sequences on Mars, filled with constructivist geometry and elaborate costumes. The Martian society is a highly imaginative representation of pre-Soviet oppression, depicting with artistic visual effects a ruling echelon enjoying the fruits of the labor of a cave- dwelling working class. The condition of the workers and the futuristic aesthetic are instantly recognizable as significant influences on the later milestone picture Metropolis.
Even with its original and artful contributions, Aelita is not without cheap thrills. Along with original depictions of a dystopian alien society, viewers are treated to the passionate kisses of a naïve Aelita and footage of camels in the Sahara, forced images facilitated by the plot device of the telescope with which the Martians surveil Earth. Granted, to the average Russian in 1924, a desert caravan was nearly as exotic as a Martian queen, but it holds little persisting value or influence.
In the end, of course, the film is a clear, but thankfully not overbearing, glorification of the Soviet ideal. The Muscovite characters are committed to building the new state, and in his martian daydream–if indeed it is a daydream–Loss leads a workers' revolt to form the Martian Union of Soviet Socialist Republics as a muscular proletarian sheds his shackles to forge the hammer and sickle. Its 111 minutes can get very long, but Aelita is certainly a film worth watching.