User Reviews

It is understandable why Commissar was banned at its original 1967 release. Chronologically one of the latest films that can be classified as a "Thaw film," it takes the theme of the "individual over the collective" and extended it into dangerous, perhaps even un-Soviet territory. Despite deStalinization, the Soviet Union and its Communist ideals still stood—the collective was still to be seen positively, and the pure, militaristic attitude of the people was still important. By introducing Commissar Klavdia as an emotionless, militaristic "maiden" with male mannerisms at the beginning, and proceeding to reveal her personal, human side through her feminineness, pregnancy, and change of clothing as she was cared for by a Jewish family, the film interprets the Revolution as a "softening of Communist values." By changing Klavdia from the officer who ruthlessly sentenced a Red deserter to the tribunal at the beginning to being a scared, doubtful mother who seemed unsure of whether or not the new regime would bring "trams and success" when the idea was challenged by Yefim, Commissar, is questioning the validity of Leninism altogether! It becomes a defiance, not a "Thaw" reinterpretation, which is why it likely got banned. Another huge factor to its banning may have been the heavy sympathy for the Jewish faith that it evokes—anti-Semitism was prominent in the Soviet Union even after Stalin. Once it was released under Gorbachev however, the film was allowed to intrigue viewers with its whirling camera shots depicting Klavdia's flashbacks, and its interest in the effects of the Revolution on the psychology of children, by showing how messed up kids got under switching regimes. Understandably banned during its time, but it is a good film about the Revolution nonetheless.

The Komissar is successful because it is thought provoking and evokes emotion from the viewer. Interestingly, although this film deals with a Jewish family and various issues of Judaism, the careful observer notices that the film is also full of symbols of Christianity. In fact, there are so many of these examples that it leads the viewer to wonder whether the filmmaker may have intended to make a commentary on the relationship between Judaism and Christianity. Although modern Christianity and Judaism are quite different from each other, they have very similar backgrounds. Indeed, prior to the birth of Jesus, they were both one religion, and became separate because Jews refused to accept Jesus as the Messiah, while Christians believed that his life was the fulfillment of Old Testament prophecy.

Some of the Christian symbols in the film are less conspicuous than others, and blend into the film seamlessly. For example, there are several scenes in the film that show crosses in the background. At one point the camera focuses on a cemetery that is filled with crosses. There are also crosses on top of churches in many scenes. The connection between Judaism and Christianity is apparent in the fact that in one scene the focus shifts back and forth between a Jewish synagogue and a Christian church, which are both being boarded up.

The beginning of the film is marked by the perspective of the two female characters, Klavdia and Maria, regarding pregnancy and childbirth. It is significant that Klavdia was an important military figure, but was forced to give up her command because she was pregnant; this would obviously never happen to a man. Although Maria has six children, she talks openly with Klavdia about the pain of childbirth, stating that it "is not good for the mother, the child, or God." The scene where Klavdia gives birth further emphasizes the pain of childbirth. In both Jewish and Christian history, the pain of childbirth is a consequence that God gave to women in response to Eve's decision to tempt Adam with the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden.

There is one scene in the film that is particularly touching because it reveals the depth of the relationship between Yefim and Maria, who do not show such blatant affection at any other point in the film. This is the scene where Yefim washes Maria's feet. As he does so, he looks up lovingly into her eyes, and says, "I love you." This scene is both tender, and also a little shocking because throughout the rest of the film Yefim is portrayed as brusque and a little rough around the edges. This is the one time in the film when the viewer is allowed to see through his exterior. It is interesting that the filmmaker chose to use the washing of feet as the interaction between the two characters during this personal moment. The washing of feet is a symbol that relates directly back to Christianity and the Bible, bringing to mind Christ washing his disciples' feet before he was crucified.

The film ends with Klavdia's decision to leave her baby with Yefim and Maria. This seems ironic because their relationship did not start out well – Yefim was outraged that Klavdia was taking a room in their house and did everything that he could to resist. Despite the circumstances, however, a friendship developed between the characters, and they learned to trust, and even to like each other. Klavdia chose to leave in order to protect her child, and also the family that she had come to love. She sacrificed herself in order to protect the other characters. Again, this situation seems to parallel Christianity; Christ sacrificed himself to protect his followers.

While the main characters of this film are Jewish, it seems noteworthy that there are so many similarities between different aspects of the film and Christianity. If it were only the crosses that served as symbols of Christianity, that might be dismissed as part of the setting of the film, and irrelevant to the story. There are, however, so many different parallels and religious undertones (particularly Christian) that it appears that they should be significant.

The biggest surprise about this little seen Soviet drama (revived in the late 1980s) isn't that it was banned for two decades, but that it was ever made at all. The film is openly critical of the Revolution, but not from behind the fancy metaphoric camouflage used in other repressed Iron Curtain features. Instead, it offers a direct and sensitive story of a dedicated but pregnant Red Army Commissar who, sometime during the 1930s, finds shelter with a Jewish family and is transformed by their affection. In the end she has to choose between motherhood and the Motherland, but her decision to follow military duty does nothing to diminish her new found sympathy for her surrogate family, and before rejoining her company (slogging through an unglamorous landscape of Ukrainian ice and mud) she entrusts her baby to the care of people (and, by extension, a tradition) she has learned to love. Stylistically, the film is a mix of poetic realism with occasionally self-conscious (but effective) montage flashbacks, plus one haunting flash-forward anticipating the Holocaust.

From staunch militant to sensitive mother, Vavilova's search for self-identity is one that creates meaningful stories, both internally and externally. She is a very curious character. With masculinity and devout patriotism as two of her defining qualities, she does not subscribe to the typical female persona (at least in the beginning).

Each quality creates a thought provoking dynamic for how she faces internal and external wars. Her internal war is pregnancy. As the child grows within her poses a threat to her masculinity, a subsequent external war is created—that is, the child additionally poses a threat to her patriotic rank as Commissar. Although both wars throw her life into a state of imbalance, they also help develop her in becoming a more volitional and rounded character. In particular, her internal war creates maternity and sensitivity—two qualities that lacked in her previous commanding status.

She acquires both qualities after giving birth; this is depicted when singing a lullaby to her sleeping babe as well as when emotionally breast-feeding him (two actions which run contrary to her initially bleak and cold persona). Her external war (i.e. love of country), so too created by the pregnancy, introduces the most difficult challenge she has to face in the film: the choice of whether to marry herself to her country by divorcing from her child, or keeping her child and ridding her patriotism.

What draws her to eventually side with her country is a series of haunting flashbacks and clairvoyant visions. In one specific moment while suffering through the birthing process, her mind flashes to a dreary landscape filled with military soldiers, who, like herself, struggle to push a heavy piece of artillery up the side of a steep and sandy hill. This image evokes at least one particular meaning—one which acts like a stepping stone to help Vavilova make her final decision when giving up her child: The collective group pushing the machine uphill is a type of not only the communist ideals that Vavilova stands for, but is also a metaphor for the strenuous birthing process itself. In other words, the birth of a child and the birth of a nation are equally painstaking tasks—both which require exertion (i.e. masculinity) and loyalty (i.e. patriotism).

The flashback ends with her waking up in panic, repeating to herself several times: "Stop torturing me." These words speak on multiple levels. In one sense, she is tired of being mentally tortured from the government that oppresses her with stringency. In another sense, she is tired of being physically tortured during the birthing process. Rich is the emotion and meaning of this flashback, and consequently it later leads to an extremely significant clairvoyant vision.

During this vision she witnesses the forthcoming holocaust of WWII. She sees herself with child swaddled in arms, shuffling amongst a sheepish group of Jews as they wander to their death chambers. Reluctant to follow what she sees, it's as if she's asking herself while in vision, "Is this my fate?" Her subtexual obstinacy kicks in: "No, it can't be." She is the author of her choices and will not be subject to any deterministic beliefs. She feels she can change this outcome, but she must act now. However, the choice to act is a difficult one given her present circumstance. What choice does she make: raise her child or fight for her country? She cannot do both, for by focusing on one the other is inevitably sacrificed. Where, then, is optimism to be found in her utterly bleak and tortured world? The aesthetics of the film help contribute to this bleakness by the director's choice of shooting the story in black and white. Only in a world like Vavilova's are colors of the rainbow absent. The black and white look is a reflection of the coldness she feels inside, empty of any optimism. Interestingly enough, however, the Jews surrounding her in vision seem to be optimistic—they raise their arms in an almost dance-like ritual, knowing full well that death will soon embrace them all. She steps back nervously. Her body language has spoken. She remembers back on the corrupt youth that exist in her present—the ones who so ignorantly mimic their corrupted elders—and feels an obligation to save the youth, and particularly her own child from such corruption. Although most of this is more or less implied, I strongly believe that this extraction is highly plausible given her final decision.

She does not abandon her child, though some may argue so. She leaves her child in the hands of a very nurturing family; ones who she could trust since they too had nurtured her during her period of birth and even rebirth. Holding the confidence that her child will be safely watched after, she returns to her former state of balance by joining the war effort. She has rediscovered her meaning, place and identity in life: she is a warrior. Her life cannot be lived in fairy tales, like Yefim suggested when turning the war into a theatrical play for his children. Her life must be lived in truth and in truth only. That is the film's predominant theme: Despite how ugly the truth of reality is—even during times of war and torture—it must be embraced and dealt with; not thrown to some fantasy that creates false optimism. By living in a fairytale, she potentially falls prey to becoming a victim of the holocaust; by living in truth, she attempts to reverse the effects of such an outcome by fighting the monster of war.

After watching a movie, "Tsirk", that featured Jewish actors executed, it was nice to see a more positive spirit towards the chosen people. The movie, which features a Red soldier go into hiding during Civil War to have a child, is noticeable for the sympathetic depiction of the Jewish family that takes her into their home. Likewise the female officer is at once a tough, professional, militant figure who naturally takes on maternal duties when she feels her child's life is in danger.

Of all the scenes in the movie the one featuring the daughter on the swing stood out. We see these children being so cruel to her as she calls out for an absent mother, and we in the audience understand helplessness. The fact that it is drawn out so long only makes us want to comfort her more.

A very real, painful movie that features an ending so shocking that I did not believe that it was really over.

Commissar boasts the best soundtrack of any movie I have seen so far, and the cinematography is wonderful. It has come a long way since earlier Soviet films in which the camera is frantically switching back and forth. Specifically, the shots at the start of the film present a detailed scenery, while at the end, we see more focused views, like when the horses are pulling supplies.

But my favorite feature of the film has to be the ambiguous ending. We aren't told if Klavdia survives and comes back to her child, or of its fate. This is a twist from similar movies. In Ivan's childhood, we find out that Ivan is dead at the end of the film. In Ballad of a Soldier, we know our soldier is already dead. That's not to say we don't feel for these characters, but there's little left to the viewer. All the information is given to us in the film - we aren't asked, "Do you believe Alexei survives and returns home after the war?" He doesn't. That automatically sets the tone for the rest of the film. With Commissar, we can ask ourselves, "Is this a hopeful film, or a darker one?" It's true that it has its share of conflict, but we can choose to believe the characters are happy at the end if we want. We do still know what ultimately happens historically, but the characters can be separate from that.

Where the movie is flawed for me is in its simplistic setup. A woman needs to rely on people she is hesitant to trust and ends up trusting them. That's a great plot line, but for 60 minutes, not 103 minutes. As I watched the movie, I couldn't help but feel it could have done more with its time. In Ballad of a Soldier, there are multiple stages to the journey, each different. In Cranes Are Flying, the story is about Veronika, but switches to very distinct scenes of Boris, as well as focusing on the characters' lives before, during, and after the war. Here, we see Klavdia at the village, and that's about it. Yes, we see the village before and after the conflict, and Klavdia before and after she gives birth, but it could have been better still. We could have seen Klavdia's soldiers trying to make do without her. Or a view of the White Army. The film is solid and stands on its own, but it feels like more could have been made.

Many elements in this film are about getting closer to the story, and the characters. One of the earliest indications of this intent is the camera- it is very lively throughout the film, and one of the repeating motifs is of it coming closer to scene- first physically but then much closer than even that. The camera moves like a person in the scene, only one unafraid of proximity, and very early on we can even see the camera take the viewpoint of a character being pushed inside a building; but strangely that's still the second closest it comes to a character.

During the childbirth scene in this movie, the camera is able to enter a metaphysical place as a metaphor for the main characters current experience- scenes of soldiers and horses. But the movie is just as much about the reality that was used as a metaphor as it was about the 'actual' events.

The scope of the plot is incredibly small as it follows a single family and Klavdia over a few days. but through this very small scope the movie speaks about something much more- about the treatment of Jews, about war, and about the revolution.

This movie gets very close to a few characters and creates an emotional bond between them and the audience. In a word, this movie is very human, creating scenes that are very warm and others that are very sad. And through these few character and events is capable of talking about much more.

The filmography of director Aleksandr Askoldov lists a single film, Commissar. After a single viewing of the film it is easy to assess why no further works exist from Askoldov. Commissar is an ambitious, gutsy, and subversive film. Askoldov had to have been cognizant of the imminent danger it posed against his young career. This (likely) awareness of the inevitability of personal ruin seemingly emboldened Askoldov to move far beyond apoliticism, which was relatively acceptable, to the unthinkable, open hostility.

When trivially compared to Chapaev, the pinnacle of socialist realism thirty years prior, it is apparent just how indifferent and even spiteful Commissar is towards certain parts of Soviet society. Both films share the backdrop of the Russian Civil War; that is where the similarities end. Commissar not only avoids socialist realism in a time period supposedly ripe for the projection of Soviet heroism, it turns the idea on its head. While Chapaev embraces the breadth of the Soviet cause against the Whites, Commissar narrowly focuses on Klavdia Vavilova and the Jewish family that hosts her during her pregnancy. The fronts of each film are portrayed very differently. Chapaev embraces revolutionary romanticism. Impassioned speeches are given and camaraderie is instilled in the troops from the legendary figure himself. The only scene where Klavdia is shown with her unit, she essentially condemns a man to death. She is moody, heavy set, and emotionally withdrawn from her comrades. The defining difference, the one that provokes the comparison to begin with, is Commissar's complete inversion of socialist realism's journey of the hero. Instead of the spontaneous good-hearted hero being politically educated by a Communist figure, here the Communist figure undergoes a form of social education by simple, good-hearted peasants. Though Vavilova verbally recites the dogma of Communism throughout the film, we see how the tenderness Yefim and Maria introduce create intense internal conflict for Vavilova. The film suggests that war and the ideologies guiding them strip individuals of their inherit humanity. The family setting is an attempt at rehabilitation. Vavilova starts off talking about abortion and how she perceives her child as a parasite growing within her. Much later, after living among a loving family, she delivers her baby. In one of the most touching sequences of the film Vavilova paces around her room (as Maria puts, "…like a caged animal") carrying her baby and singing a lullaby. The duality of her character here, the callous (dutiful) commissar and the loving mother, is perfectly illustrated by Nonna Mordyukova's nuanced, complex performance. If the enlightenment of Communism is social construction, the film attempts to deconstruct, to reduce life to a simpler, more sincere form.

Commissar directed by Aleksandr Askoldov is a 1967 Soviet film based on one of Vasily Grossman's short stories. The story is set during the Russian Civil War and centers around a female commissar of the Red Army cavalry, Vavilova, who is introduced to the audience as a brutal soldier shooting a deserter with zero remorse. The audience clearly sees her inhumane nature when she finds herself pregnant and mentions how she would have gotten rid of "it" if only she had known earlier. Finding herself pregnant and due to deliver her baby any day she is forced to stay with a not so well off Jewish family who is at the beginning is reluctant to accept her staying with them. Through her time with this family her character makes a drastic change as she now embraces motherhood, and life as a woman. One of the many themes in this film is the effect war has had on adults and children alike. The husband, who is exhausted from constantly working while earning very little, but has to feed seven children. The wife, who has to do all the house chores. In one scene the children aggressively bully and begin to wage a mock pogrom on their older sister by tying her to a swing and swaying her back and forth. The action could have only been possible by observing the actions of soldiers. Although the family is caught in all this chaos Askoldov manages to capture the warm nature of family life through the slow panning of the children and their parents sleeping as well as them dancing together. Askoldov finds ways to dramatize particular scenes; one noticeable moment is the scene of Vavilova struggling during her delivery, which is paralleled with a scene of a group of soldiers struggling to push a wagon. Also the scene where the soldiers are drinking water after succeeding to push the wagon and the scene where Vavilova drinks water when she succeeds in giving birth. This film did not adhere to the honorable vision of Soviet life in war along with the aftermath that the party officials desired the world to see. The audience is made aware of the Soviet Unions role in the holocaust, which is captured in a striking dream sequence near the end of the film where the Jewish family is happily dancing and the moment is cut short as we see the family wearing stars walking with other Jews to what seems to be a concentration camp.