Reviews

Ivan Vasilievich Changes Profession is a film capable of appealing to audiences outside the Soviet Union with its universally smart humor. From the onset it is obviously influenced by Western cinema; one cannot tell if Shurik's bedroom is Russian or American until Mussorgsky's Boris Godunov begins playing from the TV. This homogeneous consumer culture is evident all throughout the film, especially in the luxuries of Shpak's apartment, the electronics black market, and the character of Shurik's wife (in the dream plot line). In fact, Shurik's wife in the separate dream world seems almost a caricature of Hollywood with her posters and dreams of falling in love with Yakin and finding fame. Gaidai's camera work utilizes quick photography. This is exemplified in the episode in which Miloslavsky is robbing Shpak's apartment and cannot get out; Gaidai cuts to the many faces of statues and paintings that, in context, are shocked and seem to mock him. This is an amusing riff on the Kuleshov Effect. The sets themselves are also fantastic, and Ivan's (the tsar, not the bureaucrat) palace appears lifted straight out of Eisenstein's 1947 feature. Ivan Vasilievich (both of them), too, is an exact copy of Eisenstein's tsar, pointy beard and all! These visual homages would have been obvious, one assumes, to Russian audiences of the time and surely would have made it all the more comedic. However, Gaidai's humor is not intrinsically Russian, like earlier Soviet comedies, but appeals internationally. The humor lies in the situational: the police/Oprichniki chase, the switching of identities, the mad scientist, even a regal food fight. The only context clues to the time are slight jabs at Soviet rations, the black market, and housing codes. These tropes give the film the ability to transcend the trappings of a fifteen- minute fame, and allow it to be just as funny, if not more, decades later.

Tarkovskii's Mirror is profoundly episodic in that it consists almost exclusively of dredged up memories, real or imagined, from the life of the central figure, Alexei. The structure is nonlinear, but the viewer never seems to get caught up on the slight confusion created by this. The only aspect that truly hinders understanding is the decision to have Terekhova play not only Alexie's wife but also his mother; one is always a little unsure of which time sequence the film is in. This uncertainty can only be intentional as it enhances the overall theme of the fallibility of human memory. The viewer, however, is oftentimes too distracted by Tarkovskii's beautiful sequences to mind having to untangle the nonlinear plot. The camera follows characters like an unseen eye, although occasionally veers off to focus on a seemingly-unrelated poetic image, like a vase that slowly falls off the edge of a table. The color cinematography saturates the world in a dreamlike palette, such as the early scene in which Alexei's mother sits on a fence in the Moscow countryside. When Tarkovskii switches abruptly to sepia and black and white tones, it's hardly noticeable, and is remarkably well done. Surrealist elements are interspersed, such as the scene in which Maria washes her hair as plaster falls all around her and water floods the house. These instances, combined with the occasional poem narrations, make the disjointed remembrances even more dreamlike. At the end of the film, it is still unclear what exactly the viewer has seen, and another viewing is necessary. The memorable scenes stick in one's head just as much as casual pans of the camera. Tarkovskii's Mirror is full of something, and it's just not clear yet what that something is.

I imagine that Courier holds a similar place in Russian youth culture to the role John Hughes' movies hold in American culture; at the very least, I hope it does. Shakhnazarov's film is recognizably set in the 1980's, but it also seems to be timeless (besides the idiosyncratically 80's music), and this is perhaps due to the selective portrayal of Moscow. The majority of cinematic depictions of the city, where famous locations are shown at a remarkable landmark to frame ratio, make the city so prominent that it's hard to differentiate it from human characters. In Courier, however, the uniformity of Soviet dwellings and buildings make the city anonymous; the only obvious references to it are in name only. This adds to the universality of the film and Ivan's experiences. While Ivan frustrates with his nonchalance and frequent lying, the poetic scenes that Shakhnazarov fits in the corners belie the heart of the film, as well as the inner workings of Ivan's mind. Stereotypically "African" warriors haunt his dreams; he converses with a bust of his very-much-alive father in a mausoleum. At the end of the day, Ivan comes off as scared and confused at the aftermath of his parents' divorce that overshadows his mother's and his own life. The film vacillates between a gritty, saturated daily life and a surreal subconscious effortlessly. By the end, the viewer finds themselves sympathizing with Ivan. It is an accessible film for all ages in any era, although unfortunately my own life doesn't include break dancing to heavy synthesizers as the sun sets.

The Thief is narrated by a man looking back at his childhood in a post-WWII Soviet society, but while the narration might be that of an adult's, Chukhrai makes the perspective of the camera distinctly childlike. The protagonist, Sanja, never gets to see the full view of the world; Chukhrai cuts people off before the viewer (and by assumption, this is what Sanja sees) can do a full once-over, and inside shots rarely lift to reveal the ceiling or tops of windows. The physical landscape begins to take cues from the camera and Sanja's surroundings become increasingly claustrophobic. Eventually the "family" is living in a basement communal apartment, with only a stunted view of the world; the scene in which the boy stares longingly out the dwarfed window is reminiscent of Abram Room's Bed and Sofa. So similar is this technique, in fact, that it produces a similar effect: Sanja and his mother, are having their freedom restricted by Toljan and they are trapped. Chukhrai takes advantage of long shots when he has them, and slowly pans to reveal Sanja's mother giving birth, a dream sequence in which Sanja sees his father, or the empty winter landscape. These scenes disrupt the child's-perspective and the flittering camera cuts that work to keep up with the action and add a hazy, dreamlike quality to the film. Of particular note is the acting of Misha Philipchuk. While it's easy to extend a fair amount of grace and not expect a stunning performance from child actors, Philipchuk is mesmerizing as Sanja. The acting overall is very solidly done, and the other aspects of the film (cinematography, innovative perspective of camera, script) are all done with noticeable skill.

As a disclaimer, I have already seen Russian Ark numerous times; it happens to be somewhat of a favorite of mine. Multiple viewings have not made this film any less impressive than it was the first time. It is done in a single, uninterrupted shot. Elaborate ballroom scenes, precisely timed entrances, poetic pans of the camera that end up exactly where they need to be, and the massive amount of planning that must have gone into this illustrates the skill of Alexander Sokurov and his crew. The intricacies of the technical aspects are matched in the plot, too. For Russian history buffs, Russian Ark is a delight; one is on the edge of their seat, dissecting each scene to discern (before the narrator and "the European" discuss it) what is being seen or heard. Many highlights appear: the Greats-both Peter and Catherine-Mikhail Glinka, the last Tsar, Pushkin, WWII in the Soviet Era. The film appears as a whole representation of Russian culture and its containment in the Hermitage. It is important that this ark of Russian culture is explored by a European outsider, especially one who scrutinizes Russia so closely. The culture is examined by the "Marquis" as a European veneer is attempted to be scraped off, and the issue of Russia's history being ambivalently European and also not-quite-European is discussed. The narrator, when questioned as to the Russian authenticity of arts or music or confronted with vaguely Russophobic leading questions, only ever seems to simply confirm that "they are Russian". The degree to which the country's history is tinged with European or Asiatic influence is never acknowledged, because regardless of how much that might be the country is still characteristically different. Perhaps this is why it is so puzzling, and why Sokurov represents it as an ark to keep "sailing forever", never to be discovered in truth.

In illustrating the freedom of the Thaw, I Am Twenty meanders along unconstrained, with little resolution, and seems more like a series of vignettes than a coherent story. The camera angles are almost always close-fitting and create a sense of claustrophobia; the frame is surrounded by corners. In the midst of a cultural shift towards a more free nation (in Western terms), there is still a feeling of being enclosed. This makes scenes in which the shot is open seem all the more freeing. For example, when Sergei walks empty city streets in the morning, the sky takes up half the frame. This scene feels fresh and relieving in comparison to the rest of the film. Increased consumerism is clear, as one friend of Sergei's says he has gotten used to consumerism "like crazy". American influences are everywhere: in the music, the advertisements, and the styles of young Muscovites; Russia's character is still very much present, however. St. Vasily's Cathedral is prominent in the background of shots, and it is the famous Russian Alexander Pushkin's "Autumn" that is read aloud over one scene. I Am Twenty is not just a portrait of 1960's Russia, it is specifically a portrait of young Russians, who were the first generation to really live outside of the events of the early Soviet Union and WWII. Khutsiev portrays them is as aimless, but not hopeless. The camera work that encloses them is meticulously constructed and light is smartly utilized in every frame to provide a bright picture, despite the enclosed nature of the shot. The focus seems more on the situational than the psychological, in comparison to Kalatazov's Cranes Are Flying or Tarkovsky's Ivan's Childhood. Overall, I Am Twenty provides a smart and accessible picture of Russian life, albeit a picture that meanders an hour or so too long.

Kalatozov's Salt For Svanetia opens with a quote from Vladimir Lenin, and any questions as to whether it is a homage to the late leader or an indication of the content to come are quickly answered. The film centers on the Svanetian people in the village of Ushkul, and they are portrayed as culturally backwards and simple people, ruled by religious superstition and the limits of technology. While the portrayal of the Svans seems perhaps a little unfair, the depiction is done impeccably. Techniques Kalatozov uses are the same shots and angles that contemporary documentary filmmakers use; views look down from high mountain passes and from unorthodox ground angles that look up into the faces of people and animals alike. One is overtaken with the beauty of the region, but it is depicted harshly. The environment may be picturesque, but it is dangerous.In this treacherous existence, religion dominates and Kalatozov ensures to cast it in a negative light. The funeral for fallen workers after the avalanche is uncomfortable and ritualistic; scenes of villagers running and falling into the grave doesn't take on any chilling spirituality, it only seems to depict the desperation of the Svans' religion. With this, the film aligns with Soviet doctrine. After depicting hardship for much of the film, the last few propagandistic minutes seem like an afterthought. It emphasizes the power and freedom communism brings, explicitly stating "for the Svans, for the communists, there are no obstacles". It seems like a weak and kitschy ending, and the line "our economic plan is stronger than old religion and customs" drives the point home even more obviously. This film, appeasements aside, is a fascinating depiction of rural life, and its informative pace is hypnotic (regardless of whether or not that information is fully factual).

Early on in The End of St. Petersburg, Pudovkin's reputation as a montage director is evidenced. A lake shore and rising sun is paired with a view of a windmill, linking together to form a more complete view of the morning. Montages show up later, most notably a scene in which an official stands up, the camera cuts to the chair falling and breaking, and then to an attendant's shocked face. These are instances wherein Pudovkin's linkage method is clear, as the images relate and build a fuller scene. However, there is a scene one might consider more in the vein of Eisenstein: footage of soldiers rushing out of trenches in WWI is interspersed with shots of businessmen viewed from above running up steps of buildings. They are surely different, and they juxtapose sharply. Perhaps Pudovkin aimed to show the differences of those two scenes, or maybe to show that they are similar as well. Shots of a chalkboard in between these two parallel worlds (it is unsure if it belongs in that of the businessmen, but one tends to assume it does) suggest that soldiers' deaths and workers' labor are but numbers. These scenes could come off as heavy handed, but they are nuanced and the film is an intricate piece of plot and tasteful treatment of history. The depiction of WWI doesn't hold anything back, with shots of bodies floating in trenches and men being gunned down in mass. The narrative of the villager is engrossing; it doesn't overshadow the history itself and yet the film would feel lacking without it; Ivan Chuvelev's piercing stare is taken full advantage of to provide a haunting and unsettling sensation. Pudovkin's The End of St. Petersburg is a cinematic epic, but not in the same vein as Battleship Potemkin; it is a lighter, more detail-oriented fare.

Early on, The Extraordinary Adventures of Mr. West in the Land of the Bolsheviks is a comedy and meant to be understood as such. Magazines showing how barbaric Russia is alleged to be are exaggerated, but so is the Americanness of Mr. West; no one just carries around an American flag and spangled socks. Kuleshov's work in this film is not as serious as his contemporaries Eisenstein or Vertov, and perhaps as such there appears to be less esoteric uses of montage. It's present in small snatches like cuts to a shot of West's briefcase or a tea kettle boiling, but the technique is subtler than other films of the experimental left at the time. That doesn't mean it lacks technicality, though. The chase scene is masterful and clear despite rapid changes of perspective from horseback to automobile, and Jeddy's stunts are impressive. The directorial choice to include a backdrop of the Cathedral of Christ the Savior was surely no accident, and it places the film in a setting that is distinctly Moscow. And although it was added after, the music accompaniment often drives an otherwise dragging plot. The inclusion of Yankee Doodle Dandy is particularly amusing and fits the goofy mood. One has to wonder, however, if it sat well with Bolshevik ideology. Besides showing what Russians thought of Americans and vice versa, the only inclusion of real Bolshevik society was a tour by a police officer at the end; additionally, the depiction of the poverty and moral depravity of the con-artists provide a not-so-flattering view of Russia. Through the lens of comedy, however, it might be excused. Mr. West, in sum, is a comedy with sequences reminiscent of the Three Stooges, and such an over the top production would surely not have been handled as competently in the hands of a lesser director than Lev Kuleshov.

Grigori Chukhrai's film, The Forty First, sets itself up to be understood as a mythic series of events; the opening scene's churning waves seem to take the viewer away to a different world and the narration sets the story in the post-Revolutionary Civil War. This narration gives the effect of a story being told, and the way the landscape is portrayed creates an unreal landscape. The colors always seem too saturated and the sky hangs close and heavy over the actors, giving the appearance of a fish bowl. Maryutka's inclusion in the plot attests to the Bolshevik ideal of gender equality, making a break with Stalinism's reinstatement of traditional gender roles; her being referred to as an "Amazon" enhances the mythic quality of the film. Chukhrai consciously constructs shots that juxtapose; the scene of Maryutka and the White Army lieutenant walking separate on the beach contrasts the two in space as they both walk in different points of the frame in different directions. The final scenes are obviously ideological: the dialogue is crafted as a metaphor for Tsarist Russia and Communist Russia, with the lieutenant (Tsarism) pleading Maryutka (Communism) to return to how they were before the fighting; the officer's dangling cross necklace is an ever-present symbol of Imperial Russia, designating that even when all visual indicators of partisanship are gone (as he and Maryutka's uniforms have been destroyed by the elements), there is still an irreconcilable difference present. The last scene illustrates the valuation of duty over emotions. Besides the smartly handled ideology, the visual effects are The Forty First's strengths. The color palette and the contrasts it creates are striking, and create a hazy, dreamlike world in which a legend is played out.