The Zero Hour

Glasnost and Soviet Cinema in Transition

Andrew Horton, Michael Brashinsky

• Publisher: Princeton University Press
• Year: 2021
• Print ISBN:
  9780691019208
  9780691069371
• eBook ISBN:
  9780691227863
• Topic: Media & Performing Arts
• Subtopic: Film History & Criticism

Now faced with the "zero hour" created by a new freedom of expression and the dramatic breakup of the Soviet Union, Soviet cinema has recently become one of the most interesting in the world, aesthetically as well as politically. How have Soviet filmmakers responded to the challenges of glasnost? To answer this question, the American film scholar Andrew Horton and the Soviet critic Michael Brashinsky offer the first book-length study of the rapid changes in Soviet cinema that have been taking place since 1985. What emerges from their collaborative dialogue is not only a valuable work of film criticism but also a fascinating study of contemporary Soviet culture in general. Horton and Brashinsky examine a wide variety of films from BOMZH (initials standing for homeless drifter) through Taxi Blues and the glasnost blockbuster Little Vera to the Latvian documentary Is It Easy to Be Young? and the "new wave" productions of the "Wild Kazakh boys." The authors argue that the medium that once served the Party became a major catalyst for the deconstruction of socialism, especially through documentary filmmaking. Special attention is paid to how filmmakers from 1985 through 1990 represent the newly "discovered" past of the pre-glasnost era and how they depict troubled youth and conflicts over the role of women in society. The book also emphasizes the evolving uses of comedy and satire and the incorporation of "genre film" techniques into a new popular cinema. An intriguing discussion of films of Georgia, Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, and Kazakhstan ends the work.

PART ONE

GLASNOST:

BACK

TO

THE

PRESENT

CHAPTER

1

Back to the Present: (Re)presenting the Soviet Past in Feature Films

Four out of every three are the enemy of the people!

—VARLAM ARAVIDZE, the dictator, in Repentance

"LET’S GO": UNPREPARED FOR DEMOCRACY

AT A CAMPFIRE in a frozen landscape, a middle-aged drifter sits across the fire from a teenage boy he has followed for several days, thinking he is his son. The unshaven bum discovers, however, that the boy is not his son, not his link with the past, not a connection with his previous life of order and regulation. But the boy comforts the crying man, saying "Call me by my real name." A new relationship has begun. "Let’s go," says the boy as they walk off together through the dreary landscape.

This scene, from the conclusion of Nikolai Skuibin’s 1988 film BOMZH (an acronym for the phrase for a homeless person, with the connotation of "drifter"), is our starting point. For Soviet citizens and filmmakers alike, looking into the future from the present is necessarily a process of coming to grips with the socialist past. This chapter is concerned with those feature narrative films that have attempted to call the past—Stalinist and otherwise—by its "real name."

"Our lack of tolerance is worse than our lack of soap." With these words, spoken in 1989, author Victor Listov, who scripted the feature documentary Solovki Regime (Vlast’ solovetskaya, 1988), captured much of the friction between the past and the present in the Soviet Union today. "There were periods when we had sugar, but no period when we had tolerance," he said at the IREX-Film Arts Academy Conference on Media, held in Moscow, October-November 1989. The current obsession with investigating the past is, as Listov suggests, very much an effort to come to grips with a record of intolerance shaped and fostered under socialism, especially under Stalin.

What Khrushchev began in 1956 in his secret speech to the Twentieth Party Congress, the first official attack on Stalin’s cult of personality, has become a battle cry under Gorbachev. "There can be no perestroika in culture and history without lifting the oppressive burden of Stalinism from Soviet life," writes Soviet expert Padma Desai (Perestroika in Perspective, 71). The first five years of glasnost suggest that de-Stalinization and a reconsideration of the past have indeed been priorities in the arts as well as in politics.

In chapter 4, we will examine the key role that the new documentary has played in treating the Soviet past. Our task here is to explore how the feature narrative film has begun to add to the national dialogue in its (re)presentation of the socialist-communist past. The treatment of earlier Soviet events on the screen traditionally meant the glorification and mythologizing of the Revolution (before World War II), and, after the war, the depiction of Soviet victory under the harshest conditions. Beginning with Khrushchev's "thaw," a new tradition of presenting war as hell began, implicating fate and human nature rather than the party and socialism.

Soviet cinema from its inception has wrestled with how to wed the ideology of socialism to the capabilities of cinema. Whether in the documentary championed by Vertov or in the fiction film (including reconstructed history, as in Eisenstein's October or Pudovkin's End of St. Petersburg), the Soviet task in cinema, in Vertov's words, has been to work with "the language of the communist deciphering . . . the visible" (Taylor and Christie, Film Factory, 203).

But the issue is more complex. Over the past seventy years the major thrust of Soviet cinema has changed from documenting the unfolding glory of the young Revolution to investigating the shortcomings of a stagnating socialism. In no single area has this shift been more apparent than in the reconsideration and, in many cases, the first wave of investigation of the Stalinist period. But we will also consider how Brezhnev's era of stagnation has also captured filmmakers' attention. Literature, journals, and the press have been in the forefront of what has become a massive effort of revisionist history and self-evaluation. Yet cinema under glasnost has clearly begun playing a major role.

Finally, the rewriting of history on the screen is also the rewriting and expansion of the language of Soviet film, the ways and means of presenting that (re)vision. "We were simply not prepared for democracy," commented Elem Klimov at the IREX conference in Moscow in October-November 1989. His candid remarks echo those of the mayor of Moscow, Gavriil Popov: "In my opinion, the forms of democracy being established in these countries [Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union] are exceptionally contradictory and in a very short time they will lead to serious internal conflict" ("Dangers of Democracy," 27). The current intense investigation of the past is, therefore, an exercise not only in deconstruction—primarily but not exclusively with a Stalinist focus—but in reconstruction (and thus perestroika) as well.

Since 1985, filmmakers have been using the new freedoms to push the aesthetic and ideological boundaries of Soviet cinema further than ever before, to the degree that "Soviet" is, in a number of cases, an inadequate term for the emerging forms of filmmaking. In this sense both filmmakers and audiences feel how directly any film about the past is linked to the present. The difficulty filmmakers and citizens alike have experienced in getting back to the present is, as Klimov suggested, one of being caught unprepared; thus, as Popov makes clear, they are unable to "create an effective economy" in sync with the radical populism of the times (27). Once again, perestroika is a period of transition.

SHELF-KNOWLEDGE:
RE-PRESENTING THE FORBIDDEN CINEMA

Certainly the strongest early signal of change given by the Soviet filmmaking community to the Soviet public at large in 1986, as the Filmmakers' Union was reorganized, was to create a Conflict Commission, which had the power to review and recommend the "unshelving" of works previously banned. Under the liberal leadership of critic Andrei Plakhov, the commission managed to clear the shelves and closets of all officially blacklisted films—more than a hundred (Horton, interviews, Montreal, August 1989 and August 1990; Plakhov, "Soviet Cinema into the Nineties").

In Plakhov's eyes, the most significant works in this process of shelf-knowledge have been Kira Muratova's films, Yuri Ilienko's Spring for the Thirsty (Rodnik dlya zhazhduschikh, 1965), Andrei Konchalovsky's Asya’s Happiness (Asino schastye, 1967) and Alexander Askoldov's Commissar. The commission has had to act on behalf of contemporary films as well. Plakhov cites the scandal over the use of profanity and male frontal nudity in Muratova's Weakness Syndrome (Astenicheskii sindrom, 1989), which took place in early 1990. The film was finally released, an indication that once the censored shelf was emptied, no new shelf for glasnost films could be created.

The release of these films was more than a victory for glasnost against censorship. It reminded filmmakers everywhere that high-quality and challenging cinema was being done long before Gorbachev, thus reaffirming the belief that, in a sense, glasnost is a meaningless term for artists: to be an artist is to be free to explore and express one's personal vision. Glasnost, of course, offers the artist more security and less fear from persecution and detention, but it is not a guarantee of the quality or significance of speech, filmmaking, or art.

Commissar made the greatest impression on Soviet audiences in its wide release and on the film audiences of other countries, even beyond the film-festival circuit. Askoldov won the right to show his film when, at the 1987 Moscow International Film Festival, he protested that glasnost had indeed not been fully implemented, as proved by the continued suppression of his film. Those who were in Moscow that summer remember the dramatic speed with which the film suddenly appeared: it was shown the following day at Dom Kino to a widely enthusiastic full house.

Askoldov received immediate recognition and was invited to numerous festivals, winning four awards at the Berlin Festival alone. But more important, he came to represent all filmmakers who suffered for their visions before glasnost became official. The film was shelved in 1967, reportedly because it is the story of a pregnant commissar who must stop fighting for a few months during the civil war of the 1920s in order to have her child (a strong antiwar theme) and, even more controversial at the time, because the family she stays with is Jewish, so the "Jewish question" is addressed. Askoldov never again worked in film.

Soviet critic Maya Turovskaya best sums up the Soviet reaction to the film when she notes that Commissar, "for all the unmistakable signs that it was made in the sixties, has not aged a bit precisely because, like the author of the original story [Vasily Grossman, a respected writer whose literary work eventually made him an outcast], the director keeps a perfect balance [between the historical events and the personal story]" ("Commissar”). We can be even more specific. The film seems ahead of its time, and thus this stirring black-and-white feature is a bright example for contemporary directors in the Soviet Union because of its several types of balance.

First, this film of strong emotions displays a remarkable lack of sentimentality. Askoldov opens the film with the commissar, Klavdia Vavilova (memorably played by Nonna Mordyukova), cold-bloodedly executing a deserter who escaped to see his wife. The commissar moves from this seemingly heartless commitment to her post and to the Revolution through the full range of human emotion. The climax of the film is, of course, the birth of the commissar's child. Being a woman, a mother, an emotional human being is not what she has been programmed for. Thus, in a carefully constructed montage sequence, the birth is represented by the sound track, on which we hear Vavilova's cries and panting, while on the screen we see memories of her past in war and of her love for a young officer, the father of the child. The two parallel but opposite strands come together with the birth of the child and the death of the officer in battle. We feel, therefore, that the birth does not cancel out the memories of her lover, or of her duty to the Revolution, or of war. But the birth does mean her baptism into a new sense of herself and the potential of the human spirit. Sentimentality is also avoided in the sharpness of the ending, which matches the shock of the opening. A narrative that began in a cold-blooded official execution ends with the commissar giving her child to the Jewish family and leaving them to follow her squad and continue the Revolution. The moment passes swiftly, and the audience is left torn: is the commissar a bad mother but a good Communist, or is she somewhere in between, affected by her contact with the family of Yefim Magazanik (played by the versatile Rolan Bykov, who subsequently became a director), but unable to alter her life fully enough to embrace both realms? Askoldov and Grossman draw no conclusions.

Second, there is the careful balance between the protagonist, Vavilova, who in bulk as well as rank commands each image onscreen, and the elflike, small-town Jewish tinker. (The original story is titled "In the Town of Berdichev.") Challenging the patriarchal structure of Soviet official policy, Askoldov's film, though far from being matriarchal, does investigate the importance of women, both in the Revolution and at home. It ponders the concept and representation of women in cinema, which would place it ahead of most films made under glasnost. Although it is titled Commissar and is most immediately centered on Vavilova, it is Magazanik, the tinker, father, and husband, who bears the weight of the narrative.

In the figure of Magazanik we observe a discourse on gender, and are also introduced to the religious and cultural issue of the Jews under the Soviets. The timeliness of the topic could not be more profound. Glasnost has opened the floodgates to long-ignored or repressed expressions of anti-Semitism by right-wing nationalist groups as well as by individuals. As Askoldov remarked, the film still makes audiences uncomfortable, for Magazanik is portrayed sympathetically (but not sentimentally) as a husband struggling to support his family and maintain a strong relationship with his wife; consider the scene when he washes his wife's feet, looks up, and says simply, "I love you." He is also presented as a father who tries to influence his children but who is definitely not a tyrannical father figure—rather, he is something of a "wise fool" who ultimately plays the clown. This is captured in a scene in which he leads the family in a dance of life as the sounds of war close in on them. The music is that of traditional Jewish dances; the camera captures the swirling intensity of the moment and lingers on Bykov's sad, wise, tragically smiling face. This is the face not of a patriarch, but of a suffering human being who happens to be poor, Jewish, male, and living in the Soviet Union. Askoldov ends the film with a flash-forward to the rounding-up and extermination of Jews during World War II, thus projecting their suffering into the future (which is now the past), but suggesting the eternal nature of the narrative. It leaves us with little hope for Magazanik’s family (despite the "balancing" image of the dance), or for Vavilova’s child, who has been incorporated into the Jewish family and will share its fate.

A final dimension of balance in Commissar is the tension between public and private, personal and party, individual and Communist. Given that the role of Soviet cinema as defined from the 1920s on was to serve the public good and the Revolution, a film that is firmly rooted in the world of private life and the individual, and a woman at that, is clearly miles away from stark socialist realism. Two-thirds of the film occurs within the confines of Magazanik’s home: watching children play, giving birth, talking, dancing, living. The outside world is depicted as violent, bustling (the market scene), and chaotic (the ending). The only peace is found in the midst of family life, and the most memorable line is given to Magazanik’s wife, Maria (played with quiet intensity by Raisa Nedashkovskaya), who fulfills the role of companion and guide to Vavilova, leading her through childbirth. Maria explains, "War is easy: boom, boom. It's raising a family that's difficult." We laugh and nod in agreement at the same time. History sweeps over this family as it has and will over so many others. But Askoldov’s camera allows us to see that joy and laughter and love are possible in the midst of history's darkest hours. The film's critique of Communist doctrine is not overt. Askoldov implies a more universal condemnation of rigid dogmas that lead one to make choices that elevate a cause above one's own happiness and flesh and blood. It is enough to realize that the film is set during a period of civil war, the worst fate that can happen to any people.

One other unshelved work bears mentioning. In August 1990 at the Montreal World Film Festival, the late Ukrainian director Vladimir Denisenko's 1968 film Conscience (Sovest’) received its world premiere, presented by his filmmaker son, Alexander Denisenko. The film is testimony to the powerful independence of the filmmaking coming from Kiev and elsewhere in the Ukraine. Set during World War II, the film appears to be another antiwar movie centered on the Nazi extermination of an entire village, shot in a horrifyingly graphic series of sequences. It is noteworthy, however, not just because of the highly stylized black-and-white framing and composition, but because the partisans who are the protagonists are not Soviet Communists, but rather Ukrainian nationalists, members of the Ukrainian Partisan Army. Little wonder that the film was destroyed and that one print survived only because it was cut into segments and stored in various places, only to surface again in 1990. Screened during the festival's Tribute to a Cinema of Freedom, the film was well received. It was seen as presenting not so much a universal statement, as had Com...

Table of contents

• Cover Page
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Dedication
• Contents
• List of Illustrations
• Acknowledgments
• Introduction: Period of Adjustment
• Part One. Glasnost: Back to the Present
• Part Two. Glasnost: Down with Stuttering
• Part Three. The Islands of the Continent
• In Place of a Conclusion: The Zero Hour
• Filmography
• Bibliography
• Index