For Your Awareness: Mother (1926)

For this month of women in film, I decided to dig pretty deep into the film canon and find some rather obscure gems, not to mention a film that is directly tied to some research I am currently doing for a class, it is the veritable two birds with one stone way of executing things on this blog when possible.  As such, I decided to go with the 1926 Soviet montage film Mother, which, much like its contemporaries, exists in a succinct and envisioned manner that pops off the screen capturing viewers intrigue by its near surrealist use of juxtaposition and high level cinematic to draw in viewers.  In the fashion of so many films from the Soviet Union of this era, the narrative is very much centered in a Marxist state of mind, where in, the proletariat (working class) is living in insufferable conditions and attempts to make advances through revolutions, which are seemingly always suppressed by the powerful and emotionless bourgeois (upper class) who seem far more content on making profits and keeping within their ivory towers than concerning themselves with the suffering of the common man.   If the Soviets were making movies circa 2011 it would be a 99% vs 1% rhetoric, although the revolutionary zeal and artistic output that emerges in his context is far greater than anything which emerged in relation to a bunch of people occupying parks.  Of course, I did not necessarily pick Mother for this month in film, because of its relationship to Marxist politics, although oppression and finding voices against that is certainly something that has emerged in the previous blogs for the month, no, I picked this because I wanted to start mapping a trend I have witnessed, particularly in class fueled narratives of revolt, wherein mother is an image used in a sort of sacrificial exploitation manner, a fact, which is clear in Battleship Potemkin, as well as less obviously in a handful of other films of the era.  I draw upon this film not to critique it stylistically because it is a masterful piece of cinema that is as indicative of the Soviet montage as any of its contemporaries, but, instead; to ask why in a film so concerned with oppression that it makes no qualms about exploiting a female figure for its narrative benefit.

Mother focuses rather loosely on the Russian Revolution of 1905, primarily as it relates to a metallurgy plant set on gaining better wages for their families.  The Mother (Vera Baranovska) is broken down by her lack of food and ability to take care of her family, all of who are equally distraught, the worst of all being her drunkard of a husband who fails to do anything productive.  Yet when he is convinced to help with the revolution efforts he and his son become key figures in the fight, and it is when the father looses his life, that the mother attempts to protect her son from the inquiries of military officers.  Realizing that the mother is protecting secrets she is jailed for a length of time, during which the revolution escalades and her son becomes inextricably tied to the movement, upon release the mother and eventual son who receives his own jailing time, the two are now heavily invested in the movement.  During their final confrontation with their enemies, the son dies and the mother takes up arms as a very real symbol of loss and anger, only to be trampled in an intense scene moments later.  The mother makes for a powerful symbol of sacrifice and one that is from a propaganda standpoint flawless.  Yet, one must remember that as a woman this cause does not allow her to move outside of the domestic space, nor does it afford her any sort of right to correct, say an alcoholic husband, yet her image as a signifier of sacrifice is embraced and pushed to the revolutionary forefront.  One only needs to consider that Russia is often referred to, at least in this era, as the "motherland," yet, mothers, as this film, shows, likely without intention, are the most relegated and othered group within Soviet Russia and their involvement within the revolution was quite exploitative, at once a thing of symbolic empowerment, as well as something to be ignored in the face of the masculine drives of war.

This is, as I already noted not a critique, but simply a consideration.  The mother is a key figure in culture, and in the example of propaganda they exist as a point of problematic exploitation.  I still highly recommend viewing Mother because it is a thing of cinematic perfection, although getting ahold of a quality copy might be a bit expensive.

It's Nice To Fall With A Pretty Woman: The Mirror (1975)

This will not be the first time that Andrei Tarkovsky has received high praise on my blog, and considering he has made quite a few well-received films, many of which found their way on the short list of the most recent Sight and Sound Best films list.  While I have certainly advocated for Abbas Kiarostami being the best reflection of what the title of my blog represents, it is certainly not out of order to suggest that, as a filmmaker, Tarkovsky creates simulacrums of reality, in the case of this film particularly an incredibly personal piece of cinema that its, as always non-linear, non-spatial and flat out transcendental of cinematic tradition.  As a film, The Mirror moves between past, present and possibly future events all with the intent of helping one unseen individual reflect on their life, however, as is becoming the case with every Tarkovsky film I encounter the single human existence appears to be inextricably tied to a much larger conceptualization of human suffering.  Whether it be simple concerns of correcting paper typos or larger realization of coming of age woes, The Mirror shows the ever existing fragility of humanity, particularly in its fleeting and flickering movements.  The Mirror, as Tarkovsky's films prove to be, is incredibly complex, however, it is a thoroughly captivating work, one that traps viewers into his aural, oral and visual poetics that evolve and reemerge repeatedly throughout the film, especially in regards to one female who clearly affects the narrator on multiple levels.  To call The Mirror experimental is to miss the purpose of the film, because while it does contest viewers assumptions about cinematic space, this is not to further our rhetoric of editing, camerawork or mise-en-scene.  Nothing about The Mirror suggests a jarring film, although it is beautiful and visually arresting.  One could find themselves simply putting this on silent and playing it in the background, realizing that it is a continual flow of minor artworks, coalescing in to what may well be the late Russian directors masterpiece.

The Mirror loosely centers on the experiences of an unseen individual named Alyosha (Ignet Daniltsev). These experiences range from simple child hood moments of playing with his sister, to an uncomfortable relationship with a youth spent in the Army.  In many instances his memories are projected through the experiences of others as is quite apparent during the recounting of a woman's terrible experiences dealing with a awful mistake at a newspaper press.  In other instances his memories are even transcendent of space as the visual world imagines the untranslated memories of a Spanish man recounting a famous bull fight.  Sprinkled in between these memories are moments in which Alyosha appears to be talking directly to the individuals in the present, specifically when talking to his lover, who may or may not also be his mother Maria (Margarita Terekhova).  In these moments it works in a point of view manner, although it could be argued that it is always Alyosha's vision configuring the space.  In many moments, the passage of time happens within a single shot, as is the case with the burning house, as a camera captures two children staring out a window, only to pan a bit to the left and depict one of the children slightly older.  The film is also split up by poems, ones that seem to indirectly relate to the narrative.  Eventually viewers are returned to an intense argument between Alyosha and Maria, one that is quickly followed by images of a post-war Soviet Union.   In this moment Maria is depicted at various ages, completely dismissing the already fragmented organization of time and space offered up to this point.

I mention this is perhaps Tarkovsky's best film and while I will stick to my guns on this statement, I should mention that my personal favorite is Ivan's Childhood, the directors debut.  However, what makes The Mirror so significant is that it clearly merges all of the human condition issues evoked in his previous works.  I mean to say that The Mirror takes the issues of coming of age indicative in Ivan's Childhood and meshes it with the existential crisis of worth noted in Andrei Rublev, while also considering the notion of deja vu and memory that emerges within Solaris.  Scenes in The Mirror often do all three, most clearly in the gun training sequence of the film.  However, the magic of this film is not solely in regards to his merging of previous films, but has much to do with how he considers the notion of representation on film.  It is clear that Tarkovsky strives desperately to recreate his world to the best of his ability via film.  However, some elements of humanity simply cannot be procured with a simple shoot and view method and needs poetic grandeur, or a complete lack of color.  The moments of Maria showering, or houses crumbling assure this notion.  Of course, Tarkovsky is not ignorant to the inherent troubles in attempting to make a simulacrum of the fleeting and ever-changing element of human existence.  To accept this challenge, Tarkovsky incorporates several scenes of the characters staring into mirrors reminding those watching that this film while representative of human existence, nonetheless, fails to capture individuality and it is perhaps well overdue that each individual take a good long look at themselves in the literal and metaphorical mirror, after all this is precisely what Tarkovsky is doing to himself in this crowning cinematic achievement.

Key Scene:  Some of the first black and white shots in the film depict a house falling apart into puddles of water, it is poetic subtlety in its most realized form.

This is an excellent film and well worth owning.  The Kino DVD stands as the best option until a bluray comes out in the future, if such a dream even proves reasonable.

To Her, He Was A Son: Ballad Of A Soldier (1959)

Russia, historically speaking, has cemented themselves as a stark contradiction to the American film style.  Whether it be the prolific Man With A Movie camera, or the entirety of Eisenstein's ouevre, narrative dissonance and non-linear editing are their thing, so when I approached Ballad of a Solider, I assumed these would be traits of the film, however, within only moments of viewing the clearly melodramatic film, I was baffled to find its clearly American composition.  Between long reaction shots, use of music to emphasize emotion and the focus of redemption within the narrative, Ballad of A Soldier is not entirely Russian in its composition.  Now that by no means makes this a terrible piece of cinema, in fact, it is quite great and clocking it at just under ninety minutes, the film is accessible and earnest.  Furthermore, the films is neither a clear condemnation of war efforts, nor is it set out in praising the validity of warfare.  The narrative of Grigoriy Chukhray's film, which he both wrote and directed, is as the title suggests about a soldier and is certainly a ballad at that, considering its lyrical nature. It focuses on one character and his vision of a slowly eroding nation, one that evolves from foolish youthful ignorance to adult disillusionment.  If it were not for films like Forbidden Games and Ivan's Childhood, I would define this as one of the greatest coming of age tales ever composed, but mind you if I ever were to make a list of the top ten, it would certainly make the list.

Ballad of a Soldier, begins immediately as action is depicted while the credits begin to roll.  We are provided with an image of an elderly woman wandering towards a dirt road that leads to her rural village.  The film's narrator quickly explains that she is waiting for her son, a soldier, who will never return, because he like so many his age, were casualties of World War II and was lost to a haunting memory.  The film then enters into a flashback, which introduces us to the films protagonist, Alyosha (Vladimir Ivashov) a wide-eyed private who has recently received praise for single-handedly destroying two tanks.  When offered medals for his feats, he counters with a request to simply visit his mother and help her repair his homes leaking roof.  Agreeing to his request, Alyosha's superior grants him six days to complete his task and return to his battalion.  Gracious at the amount of time he has been allotted, Alyhosa leaves camp ecstatic and heads towards his hometown.  His obstacles start immediately, however, when he is stopped by a fellow soldier who begs that he deliver a gift to his wife, who resides on a street quite close to a train station in which he will make a stop.  Alyosha in his kind manner, agrees and continues on his quest.  During his first stop via train, he also helps a crippled soldier, only to discover that he plans to leave his wife upon returning home, with the help of a station agent, Alyosha convinces the man to stay with his wife, unfortunately, his task means that he will miss his scheduled train.  After bribing a guard, he is able to ride on a cargo train and eventually meets a young woman named Shura (Zhanna Prokhorenko) for whom he immediately falls.  This quick romance fills in the remainder of the travel narrative as she comes with him to drop off the gifts to the soldiers wife, only to discover that she has left him for another man.  After a bittersweet departure from Shura, Alyosha affords just enough time to visit his mother briefly, giving her a kiss and the gift of a headscarf before leaving back to the war front, a place that the narrator reminds us will be his final resting place.

I stated that Ballad of a Soldier is not blatantly a condemnation of war and am quite certain of that assertion.  While it certainly shows the casualties and destructive nature of battling in the name of politics, the narrative suggests that it is simply part of human nature and necessary for individuals to understand that the world is indeed divided into good and evil.  While this certainly would drive Nietzsche into a fit, it seems much more appropriate for Russian tradition.  With heavily existential motifs a part of their cultural history, Ballad of a Soldier is certainly similar.  Alyosha represents an individual who adheres to the good nature of the world, despite being constantly shown that people are inherently bad, particularly those with power or those out of the eye of condemnation, as are evident in the demanding train guard or the cheating wife.  Yet, even in these moments of despair, Alyosha does meet people inspire him to do right, a notion that is initially implanted in him by the general who allows him to take leave.  Now the issue arises with Ballad of a Soldier in the death of Alyosha, something that is depicted off screen.  If we were shown the death of the young soldier on screen, we would be provided with something that would either confirm or deny his existence, yet the film closes with him leaving into the horizon.  The notion of a soldier like Alyosha is a memory, something that you can praise in a ballad, yet something that exists in an incomprehensible world.  Ultimately, Ballad of a Soldier is not a commentary on war as much as it is a nostalgic reflection on a generation who lost their youth.

Key Scene: The initial meeting between Alyosha and Shura is so well shot and acted that it seems to be documentary footage.

Yet another brilliant offering from Criterion, Ballad of a Soldier is a must own and I doubt it will get a bluray upgrade so there is no time like the present.

God Sent Priests, But The Devil Sent Jesters: Andrei Rublev (1969)

Andrei Tarkovsky is a name that will eventually pop up for people entering into art house cinema.  He is one of those directors that you hear whispers about but is often overshadowed by Ingmar Bergman and Akira Kurosawa when it comes to foreign director.  However, I can attest to this fact.  Once you view a Tarkovsky film, you forever change your understanding of cinema.  I discovered this when I first viewed Ivan's Childhood, remember it when watching Solaris, and rediscovered this after my recent viewing of his black and white masterpiece Andrei Rublev.  The film while extremely slow in its pacing offers a brilliant commentary for the patient viewer and is an expertly composed film that rivals both Bergman and Kurosawa in its style and delivery.  Bested by only Sergei Eisenstein, Tarkovsky is the preeminent Russian director and created a large catalog of excellent films, despite continual censorship on the part of then Soviet government. It is an unflinching look at a significant Russian historical figure that has more to say about Russia's over-glorified past than its iconic painter.  Through a montage of scathing absurdist imagery and poetic cinematography, Tarkovsky manages to recreate medieval Russia, while also making the film blatantly pertinent to the problems facing Soviet Russia in the 1960's.

As noted, the film has as much to do with artist and monk Andrei Rublev (Anatoly Solonitsin) as it does with the people and events surrounding him.  He is accompanied throughout most of the film by his fellow monks the disillusioned Kirill (Ivan Lapikov) and the quietly pensive Danil (Nikolai Grinko).  Together they set out on an artistic endeavor to paint at a cathedral, which leads them throughout the constantly changing landscape of Russia in the 1500's.  The film begins with the monks taking refuge in a bar, only to discover a jester denouncing the church and state, which leads to the jesters denunciation and subsequent death.  What follows is a series of vignettes set to chapters with titles like The Holiday and The Silence, which involve some combination of Andrei and the other monks witnessing religious persecution, druidic rituals and mass murder in the name of the state and church, leading to various reactions amongts the monks, most notably Andrei's moment of doubt in his other wise religiously stalwart ways.  A feud arises amongst the group in their decision on how to paint a version of The Last Judgementt for a chapel, Andrei fears that a rendition of such attrocities would only scare patrons in a time when death and fire were daily realities.  Kirill disagrees with Andrei and the fellow monks have a falling out.  The film then focuses on a Tartar attack of a village, which leads Andrei to commit murder in an attempt to protect a young women from rape, leading the confused monk to partake in a vow of silence.  Andrei continues his vow of silence, despite witnessing Kirill return to the monastery and beg forgiveness.  In fact, it is not until Andrei watches a young man pretend to know the secrets to his father's bell making process that he breaks his silence and tells the boy to continue making bells, while he continues to make icons.  In a masterful conclusion, the film pans around various images of Rublev's actual paintings to remind viewers that the importance is not the artist or his artistic ability, but instead what his images represented for a specific time and place, a rather pertinent stylistic choice for a director like Tarkovsky.

Image is key to Tarkovsky, it takes only viewing a scene from any of his films to realize this, however, it is particularly relevant to a film like Andrei Rublev, because it does, in fact, focus on the life of an artist.  Although debatable, the most visceral response an individual can have to a film comes through its visual elements.  It is how the single composition of a variety of things come together on a single frame of a moving picture that catches the visual senses and captures the viewer.  Sure music, editing and narrative are important additions...to almost every other director, but not Tarkovsky.  I would go so far as to say that in terms of filmmakers Tarkovsky is an impressionist.  It is a combination of seemingly arbitrary images together which create a cohesive idea, in this case the woes of political and religious oppression.  It is easy to see why this film bothered the Soviet government, it is scathingly anti-state government, yet to the untrained eye it seems like a set of illogical images (Think Luis Bunuel's The Milky Way in black and white).  What concerns those being rebelled against are not the obvious forms of rebellion, but those subtle enough to pass under the radar undetected.  Andrei Rublev is certainly one of these films and Tarkovsky's oeuvre proves to be the same as well.  For example, his desolate landscape and distancing shots in Ivan's Childhood reflect a commentary on the effects of war on youth and a loss of innocence, while the repetition of imagery and subtle inclusion of the absurd help to drive home the sci-fi simulacrum that is the world of Solaris.  Andrei Rublev is revolutionary both figuratively and literally and it is done so through the best way possible, subversively subtle.  Which when you think about it is perhaps the best way to describe Tarkovsky as a director.

This is one of the backbones of The Criterion Collection, and is in dire need of an upgrade.  With that being said, the outdated release by the company is still far superior to its rival companies and is well worth buying if you, like me, cannot wait for a blu-ray release.

For a Spoonful of Bortsch: The Battleship Potemkin (1925)

Propaganda can be a good thing.  Casablanca is the shining example of this.  However, other countries also pushed propaganda through the medium of film, and Sergei Eisenstein was one such example.  Eisenstein's 1925 silent film The Battleship Potemkin doubles as propaganda and unfiltered artistic imagery.  The film is over the top, but such is expected of a silent film that uses theater actors as its source for characters.  Regardless of this it is enjoyable, well executed and at times awe-inspiring.

The film focuses on the revolutionary efforts of  a group of beleaguered sailors who have been subjugated to degrading living standards that range from cramped living spaces to being served rotten food.  Their lack of respect from higher-ups drives them to kill their superiors in a fit of revolution, which is shot with the same vigor and eye for intensity of the most contemporary action films.  The revolt results in the loss of their leader Vakulinchuk (Aleksandr Antonov) who is used to exalt the proletariat ideals, by serving as a martyred signifier for the effort.  In classic propagandistic fashion, the film not only focuses on the ideals of a group, but how they relate to an entire country.  As such, the film focuses on a revolt in Odessa, which involves images of unending peasants standing against militaristic oppression, using mothers and their children in sacrifice to the cause.  Ultimately, the members of the Potemkin and Odessa unite in a brotherhood of the working class desires as the film fades out into a Marxist driven future.

The film promotes classless ideals, but not genderless ones.  It promotes a notion that revolution is a masculine thing, despite involving blatant and literal sacrifices of women.  I have to accept that the film is set in 1925 ideology, yet I cannot dissuade the sexist rhetoric that ensues.  It serves as a serious reminder to how problematic even the most liberal of government plans can be.  It proves that even notions of classlessness do not by default ensure equality.

Sure, the film have problems and sure it is silent, but it is damn good and one of the best films ever made.  I recommend this as a must see film, as do so many scholars.  Not including a choice to add some color to some scenes, Kino Film has done a great job with the most recent restoration.