Author Archives: Eva Dowd

Russian History in Comedy

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One moment of this film that stood out to me was the moment when all of the Russian characters, save for Nikolai, are stealing Parisian motorcycles and moving them through the window into their St. Petersburg apartment. Nikolai asks them why there are stealing, and says that it is wrong. One of his housemates, I do not remember who, retorts, “They got fat at our expense…Who protected them from the Tatar-Mongols?”. Nikolai asks in clarification that they are just taking what rightfully belongs to them, and the others nod in confirmation.

I thought that this exchange was a good one to bring up in my final blog post of the semester because it touches on a few themes that we have discussed throughout this course. The first is that the Russian people acted as a buffer between the West and the East, and did not get anything for their efforts. The second, and more significant in the context of a modern film, is that history is always relevant and always front of mind for Russian people. Even though this film is comedic, it is very telling that this excuse is the one they used for their pilferage of French goods. This moment is one of many in the film where the Russian characters play into timeless Russian stereotypes, and that is in large part why it is so funny.

The Power (or lack thereof) of the Russian Language

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Brodsky reflects a lot about the power of the Russian language in his work “Less Than One”. However he contrasts the intricacies of his native language with the reality around him. Interestingly, he argues both that the Russian reality is a pale imitation of the beauty of the Russian language but also that these same words do not fully express the human experience. One of my favorite quotes in this piece makes this first point:

“This country, with its magnificently inflected language capable of expressing the subtlest nuances of the human psyche, with an incredible ethical sensitivity (a good result of its otherwise tragic history), had all the makings of a cultural spiritual paradise, a real vessel of civilization. Instead, it became a drab hell, with a shabby materialist dogma and pathetic consumerist gropings” (26).

This quote struck me because, in my mind, the phrases “shabby materialist dogma” and “pathetic consumerist gropings” describe the US far more than they describe the Soviet Union. Either way, Brodsky seems to believe that even the “magnificent” Russian language could not prevent their society from being a “drab hell”. In this quote, Brodsky gives the reasons why Russia should have turned out differently, but does not explain why it did not reach this ideal. Perhaps he does not know. I would be interested in hearing other’s thoughts about Brodsky’s musings about the significance of language throughout this piece.

Social Conformity in “Someone Else’s Voice”

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I found the 1949 short film “Someone Else’s Voice” to be quite disturbing, although its main characters are cartoon birds. As soon as the magpie entered the film, I could tell what the moral at the end of the film was to be. The idyllic initial scene was set with the nightingale singing for a crowd of birds who listened to him in rapture. Once the magpie entered, her criticism of the nightingale as “old fashioned” and her admiration of foreign birds who had “freedom” made it immediately clear to me that she was the social outlier that needed to be put in line. When she put on her own concert to show the nightingale how it was done abroad, of course she was a painful bad singer who only cared about her appearance. The scene that struck me the most in this film was the moment when the disapproving crowd of birds watching the magpie’s concert had had enough, and so flew in unison off of their perches to attack her and chase her off stage. Order was restored once the magpie was gone and the nightingale sang for the birds again.

That scene was so impactful for me because of its quick and violent action against a cultural dissident. There was universal disapproval of the magpie, and so her presence could not be tolerated. The translation of this image into real life is evocative of the similarly menacing Stalinist propaganda posters that we also viewed. As we know, artists of all types that did not suit Stalin’s liking were thrown into prison, barely tried, and then killed. Seeing this same concept play out even in an animated film was definitely disconcerting.

Music and the Gramophone in “Forward March, Time”

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There are many fascinating, and enigmatic, recurring images in “Forward March, Time” the 1977 Soviet propaganda film. The one that I would like to focus on is that of the gramophone, as it appears in many different contexts throughout the film, often playing music with the words “How wonderful it is!”. The most fascinating scene in which it appears occurs at around the 11th minute of the film. The gramophone plays music over a black and white sea of buildings and monuments, where the Eiffel Tower can be picked out. The gramophone morphs first into a snake with a flicking tongue, then into a gun, and finally into a tank-like gargantuan war machine that spits out both bullets and airplanes. Throughout this scene, the gramophone keeps its musicality, in some semblance at least, through its emission of sounds.

As to the meaning of this image, I took the clue of the Eiffel Tower to mean that it symbolized the Communist takeover and Socialist revolution of Western Europe. The gramophone playing the idealized music of “How wonderful it is!” seemed to stand for the ignorant and luxurious Western lifestyle, as told by the Soviets. Their music would be replaced by the more beautiful sounds of revolution.

In general, the timing of images with sound in this movie was very intentional. I would be interested to hear what other people noticed on this point in other parts of the film.

Nature’s Cycles of Life and Death in “Will”

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“Will” by Lydia Zinov’eva-Annibal had many complex symbolic undercurrents whose significance I could not fully grasp.  One interesting image that came up in multiple places throughout this text was that of the spring “earth”.  Zinov’eva-Annibal first uses it in a literal sense when our main character takes her horse out of the barn.  She describes the “spring grove” saying that “the swollen, rich earth thrust up the first tiny rays of green grass” (180).  This image, especially the use of the word “swollen,” depicts the earth as the birthplace, or a mother, of the new spring growth.  The next image of the “earth” occurs when the main character’s carriage gets stuck in the spring mud; she describes her predicament saying, “You can’t hold back the earth in spring, it’s like a quagmire with no bottom.  The earth opens” (181).  The earth described here is very different from the earth that “thrust up” the grass on the page before; instead of a creator, it is a swallower.
The significance of these two sides of the spring “earth” is made more clear when our main character finds out that her friend Alena has died in childbirth.  When the main character first walks into Alena’s hut, she describes what sees, saying, “On the floor, on the hay — a body.  The legs are bent sharply up at naked knees.  The head is thrust back.  The face is gray as earth” (182).  The use of the article “the” instead of “her” in reference to Alena’s body parts immediately stood out to me in its dehumanization of her dead body.  The comparison of her face with the “earth” recalls both meanings of image that I discussed earlier.  Alena has created life as she just gave birth, but she is all becoming a part of the all-subsuming “quagmire” in her death. Zinov’eva-Annibal emphasizes the importance of this image as she uses it two more times to describe Alena’s dead body just on page 182.  The impersonal description of her body and the inclusion of her death with the earth’s natural cycling indicated to me that Zinov’eva-Annibal’s idea of mortality mapped on quite well with Tolstoy’s as depicted in “The Three Deaths”.  Her “earth” and his “tree” symbolism seem to both suggest that although death is sad, it is natural and makes way for new life.  One aspect of “Will” that confused me in this respect, however, was the main character’s reaction to Alena’s death.  I would be interested to hear all of your ideas on this subject, especially as it relates to Alena’s baby.

Pushkin Targeted?!

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In Peter Chaadaev’s Apology of a Madman, he asks the reader, “Where are our sages, where are our thinkers? Which one of us ever thought, which one of us is thinking today?” (Chaadaev 305). From the readings and artwork that I have been exposed to this semester, it seems clear to me that this question is ridiculous; at that point in history, there had been many great “sages” and “thinkers” in Russia. Alexander Pushkin’s “To Chaadaev” is so interesting because he is one of Russia’s most notable luminaries from that time that Chaadaev chooses to dismiss. Unlike Chaadaev, Pushkin does not believe that Russia is without inspired individuals; yet, he chooses not to completely dismiss Chaadaev in his response. Pushkin addresses him, saying, “Believe, my friend: Russia will rise…On tyranny’s stark wreck the nation/Will write for evermore our name!” (Pushkin 36). Even though Chaadaev essentially directly insulted Pushkin, Pushkin wants to cultivate the shared Russian identity and so calls him a “friend”. Pushkin, however, molds Chaadaev’s criticism of Russian thought, or the lack thereof, to fit an argument that he has made in other pieces of his writing we have read; it is not the fault of the individual but of the autocracy if the Russian culture has not made a significant impact world-wide. According to Pushkin, “Russia will rise” once “tyranny” is brought to “stark wreck”; i.e., once authoritarian government is brought down, Russia’s full glory will be realized. Perhaps that is why Chaadaev’s piece is entitled “Apology of a Madman”; he places the blame of Russia’s lack of prominence in the world’s cultural cannon on lack of individual genius instead of on real societal hindrances.

The Power of the Written Word

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In Pushkin’s poems “Arion,” “The Poet,” and “Exegi Monumentum,” there was a remarkable consistency in message surrounding the role and power of the written word. In “Arion,” Pushkin depicts himself as a “secret singer” on a boat with a “skillful helmsman”. When the ocean suddenly becomes rough “all were lost” except for Pushkin, who is able to peacefully “dry in the sun”. The fact that the only differentiator between Pushkin and the rest of the crew is his ability to “sing [his] anthems,” seems to indicate that this quality is the one that saved him from the storm. Pushkin goes more explicitly into the power of his words in “The Poet” and “Exegi Momentum”. He describes a poet’s sensibilities saying, “Yet once the god-engendered word/But touches on the vivid senses,/The poet’s soul awakens.” However, the impact of this “awakening” is that “Before the idol of the nation/He is too proud to bend his knees.” The contrast between the words “god” and “idol” are telling, especially the fact that Pushkin equates “god” with the poet’s word and “idol” with the nation. The “word” is the truly divine, while the “nation,” and therefore the Tsar, is a false god that definitionally should not be worshipped. Pushkin expands on this potentially heretical and treasonous idea in “Exegi Momentum”. He states describes his theoretical monument stating, “Czar Alexander’s column it exceeds/in splendid insubmissive height.” The fact that a creation of Pushkin’s not only “exceeds” that of the Czar but does so “insubmissively” is an indisguised act of defiance. Pushkin then makes clear that his “monument” is related to his mastery of language by stating that his “sprit will survive,/and my sublunar fame will dwell as long/as there is one last bard alive.” Here, the “bard” harkens back to the “singer” in “Arion,” and has a similar type of power. Pushkin’s “spirit” and “fame” will live on as long as there is a “bard” to preserve them. This image also returns to the life-giving nature of story-tellers also brought up in “Arion”. In “Arion,” “The Poet,” and “Exegi Momentum,” Pushkin simultaneously praises the divine, life-giving nature of the poetic word while placing it above the Tsar’s own divinity and power.

Serfdom ≠ Manhood

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Radishchev’s A Journey from St. Petersburg to Moscow employs many rhetorical techniques in order to convince his audience that serfs did not deserve to be under the degree of bondage that they suffered at that time. I am not informed as to the literacy rates in 18th century Russia, but I would assume that most of Radishchev’s readers were educated members of the bureaucracy in some form.

I want to focus on the Gorodnya section of this piece; here, Radishchev works to portray a particular serf as a true man in order to make his treatment, especially at the hand of a woman, seem unjust. This particular serf was brought up and educated alongside his master’s son, so that “there was hardly any difference between us, except that the cloth of his coat was perhaps better” (274). His master even so far as admits to him, “You have more of an inclination for learning and morality than my son” (274). However, when his old master dies, the serf is subjected to the oppressive rule of his new master’s wife, who just so happens to have “a very ugly soul and a hard and cruel heart,” although he was essentially brought up in the same manner as this woman’s husband (275). Radishchev makes sure to emphasize the “humiliation” the serf feels at her hand; the serf calls her to her face “inhuman woman” and states at the beginning of the story that his fate depended on the “arbitrary whims of a woman” (275). By using this framing of gender, Radishchev seems to argue that serfdom, at least as portrayed here, is an inversion of the natural order. He knows his audience can agree that it is not right or just for a woman to have the power to subject a man to her will. By skillfully convincing readers that serfs are in fact men, Radishchev proves serfdom to be an emasculating, and therefore unjust, state of being.