“In cinema, as in life”, Klimov said in a 1986 interview, “the atmosphere changes very fast. In movies, styles change fast, too. If a film is not released immediately, it soon dates. It loses its relevance to new thoughts, new ideas. If a film is not released for 10 years, it’s a real tragedy”.
The fact that Agony remained out of circulation for so many years was, indeed, a tragedy, but not the disaster it would have been had it stayed on that shelf permanently. Infusing the movie with a unique, occasionally flashy style, Klimov gives us a story of Rasputin unlike any we’ve seen before.
The year is 1916, the waning days of Imperial Russia. Grigori Rasputin (Aleksey Petrenko), a Siberian-born mystic and self-proclaimed Christian monk, has stirred up quite a bit of trouble with his role as trusted advisor to Tsar Nicholas (Anatoliy Romashin) and especially his wife, the Tsarina Aleksandra Fyodorovna (Velta Line). A drunkard and a womanizer, Rasputin was the source of a number of scandals, at one point even advising the Tsar to change military tactics in time of war, resulting in a terrible defeat for the Imperial army.
Government and religious leaders alike denounced Rasputin, but it was an assassination plot devised by several men, including Prince Felix Yusupov (Aleksandr Romanstov), Grand Duke Dmitri Pavlovich (Sergei Muchenikov), and politician Vladimir Purishkevich (Yuriy Katin-Yartsev), that finally ended Rasputin’s reign of terror. As the conspirators soon discovered, however, it would take more than poison and a few bullets to bring this “Holy Man” to his knees!
With a baroque, lively approach to the material, Klimov engages us on an emotional level throughout Agony, from anger and revulsion at Rasputin’s actions (at a party one evening, he sexually assaults a Baroness played by Nelli Pshyonnaya) to pity and a hint of admiration for Tsar Nicholas, portrayed throughout the movie as a weak but basically decent guy (one of several issues Soviet authorities had with the film). Romashin and especially Line deliver strong performances as the Tsar and Tsarina who have fallen under Rasputin’s spell, and Alisa Freindlich is also quite good as Anna, Rasputin’s cohort and chief confidante. But it is Petrenko who steals the show, playing Grigori Rasputin as a loathsome opportunist and even a sexual deviant. The Baroness he accosted at the party eventually submits to Rasputin’s sexual advances to protect her husband, who was arrested for trying to defend her honor.
Along with its cast, Agony is a stylistically engaging motion picture. Klimov brings a vivacious, almost comedic energy to a number of scenes, letting his creativity run wild at several points throughout the film, culminating in the movie’s strongest sequence: the assassination of Rasputin, depicted here in a manner that is both historically accurate and incredibly tense (much to the chagrin of his assassins, Rasputin refused to die quickly).
As with Come and See, Agony is not an easy film to watch, but you will be doing yourself a disservice if you miss either.
Rating: 9.5 out of 10
Parajanov’s most notable film, Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors, broke socialist boundaries in every way imaginable: story, theme, execution, and style, and in so doing became one of the most important motion pictures of the 1960s.
Set in a small Hutsul village in Ukraine’s Carpathian Mountains, Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors tells the story of Ivan (Ivan Mykolaichuk). As a young boy, Ivan witnessed the murder of his father Petrik (Aleksandr Gai), who was beaten to death by Onufry (Aleksandr Raydanov), who Petrik had insulted. Despite the bad blood between their families, Ivan would eventually fall in love with Onufry’s daughter Marichka (Larisa Kadochnikova), whose feelings for him ran just as deep.
To earn money so he could marry Marichka, Ivan leaves their village to seek employment. While he was away, Marichka accidentally drowned trying to save a lost lamb.
Though heartbroken, Ivan would eventually fall in love with Palagna (Tatyana Bestayeva). The two marry, but over time Ivan becomes distant, unable to forget his love for Marichka, and it isn’t long before Palagna is having an affair with Yurko (Spartak Bagashvili).
Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors stood apart from most by being one of the few Soviet-era films in which the characters spoke Ukrainian instead of Russian. Yet this 1965 movie would also distinguish itself in ways beyond the spoken word. Turning his back on the Soviet socialist realism mandate, Parajanov relied heavily on symbolism, both religious and cultural, throughout the movie; we are treated to traditional weddings, funerals, and holiday celebrations, complete with all their customs. There is plenty of folklore as well, mostly religious in nature. Lambs are a recurring theme throughout the movie, and a dream sequence centers almost entirely on the cross of Jesus. There’s even a chapter titled “Sorcery” that delves into the supernatural.
Parajanov infuses the film with style to spare. As Petrik faces off against Onufry, the camera swings around to a POV shot, so that we are suddenly seeing the action through Petrik’s eyes. When Onufry strikes Petrik, blood flows across the screen. The scenes where Ivan is in mourning for Marichka are shot in black and white, to convey his mood, only to be replaced by color once again when he meets Palagna. There is music as well, including a late sequence in which Ivan sings a duet with the spirit of Marichka.
By continually blurring the line between reality and fantasy, and doing so with such artistry, Parajanov did more than turn his back on Soviet restrictions; he took the art of film in unique, exciting new directions. Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors stands alongside Battleship Potemkin, Andrei Rublev, and Come and See as one of the greatest movies to emerge from Soviet Russia.
Rating: 10 out of 10
Starting in February of that year, when the new Government first came into power, October then highlights the events leading up to the Bolshevik Revolution, from the arrival of Vladimir Lenin (played by Vasili Nikandrov) at the Petrograd Railway Station to the July massacre of protesting Bolsheviks in Nevsky Square.
With the Provincial Government both incompetent and corrupt, the Bolsheviks gained in popularity, winning favor with the people and the military, all leading up to those fateful days in late October 1917, when Socialist Russia was born.
Along with being a staunch supporter of the Bolshevik regime (he fought with the Red Army during the revolution), Sergei Eisenstein was also a well-respected film theorist and a proponent of the practice of montage, a technique by which a series of seemingly unrelated shots are edited together to tell a story, introduce symbolism, and establish a rhythmic flow. Eisenstein’s reliance on montage went a long way in making his 1925 film Battleship Potemkin an undisputed cinematic classic. Unfortunately, his quick-cut style and sharply contrasting imagery proved more hit and miss in October, and at times even drained the energy from it.
Eisenstein’s rapid editing works well in October’s “big” scenes, like the opening, when an angry mob topples a statue of the Tsar, as well as Lenin’s arrival in Petrograd. It is especially effective in the Nevsky Square sequence, where Bolsheviks were fired upon by the army as they marched through the streets (the Provincial Government ordered a bridge raised to prevent the Bolsheviks from advancing, leading to several unforgettable images when the bodies of the recently killed slide down as the structure gets higher).
Alas, the quick cuts undermine some of the movie’s more serene moments; a scene in which soldiers enjoy a few minutes of camaraderie on the battlefield features so many individual shots that it quickly becomes a distraction. I would venture to guess there isn’t a shot in this sequence that’s more than 2 seconds in length!
While I admire Eisenstein’s commitment to technique, and agree that montage, when used efficiently, can do wonders to further a movie’s story, less “technique” and more “story” would have made October a much better film.
Rating: 6 out of 10
Directed By: Aleksandr Sokurov
Starring: Sergei Dontsov, Mariya Kuznetsova, Leonid Mozgovoy
Tag line: "2000 cast members, 3 orchestras, 33 rooms, 300 years, ALL IN ONE TAKE"
Trivia: Because the Hermitage museum had to be shut down, the production had only one day to shoot the film
Every so often, a film comes along that, by its very technique, demands recognition.
Russian Ark is just such a film.
There's not a cut, fade or dissolve in this entire movie. Not a single editor’s splice. Filmed on location at the Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg, it is, at 90 minutes, one of the longest uninterrupted shots in cinematic history.
We follow the narrator (represented by the camera in a point-of-view perspective) as it navigates the halls of the Hermitage, traveling through time as it does so. Acting as our guide to this wonderful retelling of Russia's past, the narrator meticulously uncovers the events of yesteryear as they occurred in both St. Petersburg (via a quick visit from the 18th century’s Peter the Great, played by Maxim Sergeyev) and the Hermitage itself (a series of six buildings commissioned by Catherine II in 1754, the Hermitage once served as the ancestral palace of the Tsars, and currently houses hundreds of Russia’s most prestigious works of art).
Along the way, the Narrator meets a French aristocrat from the 19th Century (Sergei Dontsov), a man known as the Marquis de Custine, who is traveling along a similar time-line. The Marquis, a scathing critic of Mother Russia, joins the Narrator on this journey of discovery, stopping occasionally to admire the beautiful artwork that adorns the walls of the Hermitage.
On their trek through the museum, these two companions encounter various historical figures, including Catherine the Great (Mariya Kuznetsova) and Tsar Nicholas II (Vladimir Baranov). By the time Russian Ark is over, we will have visited every room in the Hermitage, and covered the highlights of 300 years of history
There are scenes of sweeping grandeur (such as the ballroom dance, which boasts three...that's right, three...performing orchestras) and quiet simplicity (in one marvelous sequence, we follow Anastasia, the daughter of Nicholas II, as she playfully runs through the hallway with several ethereal friends), made all the more amazing by the fact each are part of the same shot. Director Sokurov spent months planning this movie, from the path the lead actors and camera would take to what they would discover along the way.
Sokurov was given one day, and one day only, by the Hermitage (which had shut its doors for the first time ever) to complete his film, and after a few mistakes, he finally got what he wanted in his final chance (another mistake, and they would have had to abandon the project). The artistic and cultural connections that exist between Russia and the rest of Europe are given a once-over as the Narrator and the Marquis, moving from room to room, argue extensively over the country's accomplishments in the social arena.
But Russian Ark does not shy away from brutality either, and along the way we experience a little harsh reality when, in one room, we spot a man hard at work building coffins, to house the remains of the many poor souls of St. Petersburg (then known as Leningrad) killed in battle during World War II.
I was completely overwhelmed by the experience of watching Russian Ark. I bathed in its beauty, was enraptured by its scope, and basked in the glow of a bright and courageous filmmaker who has brought to life an amazing work of art. The cinematic accomplishments of Russian Ark are enough in and of themselves to assure it a place in the annals of film history. The fact that it is flawlessly executed makes its very existence a miracle.
Directed By: Sergei Eisenstein
Starring: Aleksandr Antonov, Vladimir Barsky, Grigori Aleksandrov
Trivia: Charlie Chaplin has called this his favorite film
Sergei Eisenstein was one of the most brilliant minds in the history of cinema. Aside from writing a number of books on film theory, Eisenstein is also considered by many to be the father of montage, where sharp, sometimes contradicting images are edited together to tell a specific story.
Eisenstein's theories and love of montage blend together perfectly in his 1925 masterpiece, Battleship Potemkin.
It’s 1905, and life aboard the Russian battleship Potemkin, pride of the Czarist fleet, has become unbearable. The food is spoiled, the duty hard, and the officers corrupt, beating the men for the smallest of infractions. Fed up with these shoddy conditions, the sailors stage a mutiny and take control of the ship.
The citizens of the nearby town of Odessa, who also suffer at the hands of the Czar's officials, greet the news of Potemkin’s rebellion with cheers of support. Their joy turns to horror the moment the Cossacks arrive, who, to head off any further chaos, slaughter the citizens who have gathered in the streets.
Eisenstein’s skills as a director and, especially, an editor are on full display in Battleship Potemkin’s most famous sequence, where the Cossacks fire upon a crowd of unarmed civilians on the steps of Odessa. It’s more than a great scene; it’s one of the most spectacular in motion picture history. Yet as thrilling as it is, the Odessa Steps massacre is but one such moment in a movie that, time and again, stirs our emotions.
Earlier in the film, Eisenstein took us below decks, where Potemkin’s sailors sleep on hammocks strung to all sides of the ship, turning the entire area into a web of ropes and exhausted crewmen. An officer, making his way through this mess, stops abruptly when his arm gets tangled in one of the hammocks. In a fit of rage, the officer turns and strikes the closest sleeping sailor, inflicting a painful wound. The sailor jumps up and stares at the officer, who, now free from the tangle, continues on his way.
Though not nearly as renowned as the Odessa steps sequence, this scene works exactly as Eisenstein intended, conveying the brutality inherent in Czarist Russia.
Today, we see Battleship Potemkin for what it was: an Anti-Czarist propaganda film. Yet the strength of its story remains just as potent, and the images just as stirring, as they were in 1925. Political agenda aside, Battleship Potemkin is still a work of moving intensity.
