Author Archives: Zach Flood

The Power of Music in Window to Paris

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Window to Paris offers a modern reinvention of the St. Petersburg myth and plenty of laughs. One aspect of the film that stood out to me right from the opening sequence was the power of music and musical icons within the narrative and satire. First and foremost is Nikolai’s brandishing of a tuning lever like a gun on two occasions. In this way, the means of correcting the pitch of an instrument and restoring harmony to a scene is shown to carry might similar to the ability to take a life. Furthermore, a few major plot points owe to musical intervention. Nikolai’s scheme to break Nicole out of jail entails presenting her as a famous French singer-songwriter, while he assume’s Elvis’ name. Likewise, his plot to evacuate the children from Paris entails passing his entourage off as a French army band before hijacking an airplane. These examples show music as a force transcending conventional authorities — Nikolai asserts that Edith Piaf is worth more to St. Petersburg than its entire police force, a position that yields no opposition from the police. It is no surprise that the master musician can bend the will of the children to stay in Russia and thus avert brain drain despite proving meek in other regards. At the same time, we can see the improbable developments owing to musical elements as marking music as one of the mystical forces governing the St. Petersburg myth.

As for the film’s social critique, music represents an indicator of a society’s health on multiple occasions. For instance, the comedically off-key rendition of “The Internationale” amid a vodka shortage hints at the failure of communist ideals to create a harmonious Russian society. We see a similar theme of music exposing failure and fraud in Gorokhov’s attempt to scam Parisians with the music box concealing a speaker; the pitch drops as the speaker dies, exposing the sinister intent. In addition, the sequence of business instruction superseding musical education for a time in Nikolai’s school points to a loss of aesthetics as a cause of social degradation in spite of ethical reform. The out-of-tune piano too falls into this symbolic category. As I lack formal training in music, I would be curious what you guys make of the finer details of the score.

The Two Scales of Anna’s World

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One aspect of Anna that stood out to me was the simultaneous exploration of the end of the Soviet era on two scales: the broadcasts seen by tens of millions, and the father-daughter relationship ordinarily only visible to a handful of people. Breaking from an oblique treatment of official state iconography in the privately produced Soviet works we have seen this semester (barring Burnt by the Sun by the same director), Nikita Mikhalkov makes extensive use of footage of national leaders, military parades, Congress of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, anthem recitals, state funerals, Young Pioneer conferences, the Olympics, state funerals, concerts, and other major events. It is easy to see the national cult attested by Mikhalkov through the footage and make sense of his daughter Anna’s fears of war and not saying the right thing. At the same time, we never get the sense that the official footage is the complete picture of the era. The dirt road that reappears in the final scene and the shots of peasants show a barrier on the scope of the televised image of the country. Sure enough, Anna’s first series of responses make no reference to the nation as presented on television, while her later responses gradually dispute previous points about the efficacy of the Soviet systems. Hence, in addition to giving context to Anna’s perspective, the footage juxtaposed with with Anna’s interviews conveys the loss of a teleological narrative, a rift between the state image and ordinary lives, and ultimately the collapse of the country.

In viewing the film, it is important to acknowledge Mikhalkov’s unusual status within the Soviet Union. On the one hand, he is an ideological dissident in his Orthodox Christian views, aristocratic heritage, and rejection of communism. On the other hand, his father wrote the lyrics to the “State Anthem of the Soviet Union” and his family clearly enjoys privileges unknown to most Soviet citizens. It recalls a dynamic from 19th-century works wherein the artist has a vested interest in the institutions they critique. While we should thus be careful not to deem the  film an objective view of the late Soviet Union, we should also recognize its value as a Russian motif.

*Edited to further develop the second paragraph.

Defense Mechanisms in Kolyma Tales

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Shalamov’s Kolyma Tales explores the theme of coping with the horrors of the Gulags.  “A Pushover Collection,” the first in the sample we were given, introduces the theme of reducing one’s surroundings to their instrumentality. The narrator comments on how he “had long since come to understand and appreciate the enviable haste with which poor northern nature chawed its eager wealth with equally indignant men, blossoming for him with every variety of flower” (21). We can see from the manner in which the quotation is introduced that this is an outlook imposed through hardship, while the theme of exploitation and indignity likely owes to dialectical materialism. More importantly, a message of nature being a means to an end emerges. The cedar tree functioning as an indicator of the seasons (22) also references this imposed instrumentality. However, we do not see the true foundation for this view until “In the Night.” In this story, Glebov and Bagretsov exhume the corpse of a guard. In some sense, the act is Tolstoyan: a dead man has no use for accumulated material wealth, even if said wealth merely takes the form of a pair of boots or underwear. On the other hand, there is clearly a difference between claiming the boots of a recently deceased man and prying the underwear from a frozen corpse. Despite having the trappings (and maybe even internal justification) of an institutional Russian belief, the act is better understood as a physical and psychological defense agains the camp environment.

Another defense that emerges is the prisoners’ endorsement of irrational beliefs. The most striking example is when crowds of starving prisoners ravage a drum of machine grease on the pretense that it is “American butter,” drawing an analogy to the nourishment offered by “American wheat” despite resembling an inedible industrial product (175–6). Here, the belief serves as a reaffirmation of hope against the prevailing gloom of the camp. Another important sequence is the camp’s broader attitude toward the dwarf cedar needles in “A Pushover Job.” In that story, the narrator endorses collecting the needles in spite of failing to gather enough to receive compensatory meat and vegetables (25) and the extract from the needles likely harming the prisoners who inject it. This particular belief works as a defense of the narrator against returning to the traumatic mines (24). Shalamov makes it clear that the irrational beliefs do not meaningfully aid the prisoners outside of facilitating interactions between prisoners. More generally, he shows the weakness of the mechanisms when the narrator is rendered distraught by a child’s drawing in the eponymous story (137). If anything, the belief that the Gulags can be endured through any particular strategy short of change is made out to be the ultimate irrational belief.

The Search Resumes in Bugalkov’s Heart of a Dog

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There is an interesting thematic division within Bugalkov’s Heart of a Dog. On the one hand, Sharikov functions as a critique of the values embraced by 1920’s Soviet Russia: disregard for manners and other basic norms, appreciation of the circus before theatre, participation of contemptible people in official capacities, betrayal of neighbors to the secret police, and hypocritical disregard toward alcoholism and sexual assault. On the other hand, the narrative challenges the regressive values of Philip Philippovich Preobrazhensky. His entire motivation for creating Sharikov is eugenics (104), centered on a belief in the linear evolution of life. Only through such a view could transplanting a human pituitary gland to a dog produce a superior being. Yet rather than perfecting Sharik, the operation returns a being far more sinister than Sharik ever was, one mainly guided by the wicked impulses of the vagrant who supplied Sharikov’s brain. For Preobrazhensky, the experience shows how his effort was less successful at “improving humanity” than chance alone. Although the eugenics content is retroactively more reminiscent of fascism, the belief in inevitable societal progression is central to Marxism. As such, the refutation of Preobrazhensky’s beliefs ironically serves to challenge the system so despised by the Professor. Still, the rejection of natural  hierarchies of humans or animals does correspond to communist ideals, showcasing perhaps one fault of bourgeois thought.

With this critique considered, it perplexed me how the book concludes with Preobrazhensky resuming his work dissecting brains and searching for a means of achieving “rejuvenation” (123). I now see a couple possible meanings. First of all, the sequence might refer back to Preobrazhensky’s stubbornness and refusal to accept even benign changes in prevailing thought. After all, this is a man who still wears a medieval French mustache style (6). The sequence might also be understood as recalling the disturbing manner in which Sharik was made a human. Such an ending would reiterate the tragic aspect of the narrative: a seriously wounded dog gives its trust to a promising benefactor, only to be subject to a horrific experiment that goes against its founders core ambitions. Stated as such, a clear parallel between Sharik and Russia during the early 20th century emerges. I do not believe one aspect of the ending ought to be emphasized over the other; taken together, they cover both key themes.

Violent Imagery in Battleship Potemkin

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Sergei Eisenstein’s Battleship Potemkin is unmistakably a propaganda film. Central to its messaging is a contrast between the solidarity among class-conscious workers and the oppressive tsarists who cling to power through division and atrocities. What struck me about the film was how it sold this message through violent imagery. Lines of Cossack soldiers massacre civilians, leaving multiple children on-screen orphaned or dead, in a clear display of contempt for human life. A gunshot wound leaves a woman’s swan brooch drenched in blood, a clear sign of the assailants’ contempt for love and purity. Before the Cossack detachment arrives in Odessa, a man attempts to sublimate the revolutionary fervor through a pogrom, conspiring to murder the city’s Jewish residents. These disturbing plot developments accompany an undercurrent of violent images such as shots facing down the barrels of turrets, a metal cross penetrating the lower deck of the eponymous ship like a knife, the first act concluding with soldiers shattering a plate because of its hypocritical message, and the final shot being a sharp ship bow passing over the camera at water level. Clearly, the violent and menacing presentation work to humanize the revolutionaries and other victims of the tsar’s regime while vilifying the propagandistic targets. What perplexes me is how physical violence within Battleship Potemkin is pervasive in the film than in the contemporary poems we have studied (In both concept and execution).

In a sense, I am more reminded of much older works such as “The Lay of Igor’s Campaign.” Perhaps the fact that both works emerged during periods of conflict might reflect an audience desensitized to armed struggle. I see an alternative hypothesis as more likely; Eisenstein understands that violence in film can shock the naive viewer on a more visceral level than other media, especially one living around the dawn of cinema. It is thanks to this media literacy that such a menacing presentation emerges.

Resuming the Discussion of Peasant Roles With Chagall’s Art

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I would like to resume a discussion set forth by Liam about the role of peasants in the works of various Russian Avant-Garde artists. An interesting departure from previous portrayals of the Russian peasantry arises in the development of unique visual arts symbolism. Previously, we have encountered a few archetypes in relation to the portrayal of peasants in high visual art. A common 18th- and 19th-century trope was the romanticization of peasant life, as seen in works such as Venetsianov’s “Reapers” (1820s). We also do have a number of works like Repin’s “Barge Haulers on the Volga” (1873) that emphasize the grueling and obsolete labor endured by the lower classes, drawing attention to human suffering and corruption. Both styles emphasize the humanity of the peasants and strive for realistic proportions and expressions, allowing other elements and principles of design (i.e. lighting and composition) to distinguish their finer purpose. A divergent tradition of flat, stylized humans surfaced in folk art around the same time; such works generally have less to say about the conditions of labor or humanity of laborers.

This style and its analogies in neighboring societies seems to be the inspiration for Chagall. In “I and the Village” (1911), similarly stylized images of a man with a scythe, an upside-down dancing woman on a rooftop, and a woman milking a goat appear. Given that the composition similarly incorporates images such as a cross necklace, cathedral, and the tree (certainly a sacred symbol, especially if construed to be the tree of knowledge of good and evil from the fruit) into the composition, it would seem as if the peasants adopt a similar symbolic status. It is important to account for the fact that this status is not akin to reverence as in icons or ascended existence  as in symbolist art. I find the juxtaposition of the man with the scythe and the dancing woman striking. It seems to stand for the duality of labor and spirit in Chagall’s village life, or perhaps the succession of images from the woman milking the goat to the dancing woman form a daily chronology. In either case, the man with a scythe is not a laborer — he is labor. “Sukkot” (1916) also incorporates peasants, although their participation in the Jewish holiday amid farm labor is pretty neutral,  a piece of the experience rather than the experience in-of-itself. Much later on, “The Farmyard” (1954-1962) features a peasant woman. What is most notable about this example is how the woman is detailed in the same palette as the background, whereas the animals incorporate brighter colors and striking textures. These decisions speak to the peasant as perhaps an anchoring figure: an immediate source of context and a piece of the experience, but not a central message.

A Prisoner in the Caucasus vs. Prisoner of the Mountains

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Despite following similar plots, Tolstoy’s A Prisoner in the Caucasus and Brodsky’s Prisoner of the Mountains offer wildly different portrayals of the Caucasian captors. In the former, Tolstoy emphasizes the exoticism of the Tartars: their Islamic practices, squabbling, consumption of horses, and surprise at Ivan’s tool proficiencies. By contrast, Prisoner of the Mountains acknowledges the different customs of the Chechens but does not embrace Russian ways as normal. While Dina appreciates Ivan’s crafts in both works, Prisoner of the Mountains establishes limits on Ivan’s relative craftsmanship with his refusal to fix the clock (on account of not having enough time). Also important is the disparity in mercy across the two works. Whereas the Tartars in the first work are made out to be vengeful, the sequence of the Brodsky film in which Abdul leads off Ivan to shoot him but then spares his life shows a merciful aspect. I agree with Colby in how this contrasts with Russia’s aggressive strategy; Ivan’s despair in the final sequence cements the associated critique.

Another key difference is in Dina’s characterization as quasi-love interest. In Tolstoy’s work, her fascination with Ivan primarily follows from her admiration of his doll making and broader ways. In this way, youth and openness to experience outside of the Tartar norms define her. By contrast, the Dina in Brodsky’s film has conversations with Ivan about her struggle to get married. In many ways, this resembles Ivan’s struggle to prove his masculinity. From the opening health screening, Ivan finds his genitals scrutinized. While imprisoned, Sasha suggests that Ivan may be castrated should he remain a slave to Abdul’s family. Later on, Ivan finds himself rejected as a participant in a fight, showing a failure of Ivan to attain the masculine norm of physical domination. In this way, Dina comes across as more mature, serving as an equal counterpart to the Russians rather than a plot device. In this way, Brodsky’s film foregoes banal exoticism tropes in favor of examining a common conflict between the individual and society. In this broad sense, the Chechens are assimilated into the Russian experience.

Briullov’s Mastery of Reality and Narrative

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As I perused the selection of 19th century works, I saw a dreamlike quality in Briullov’s portfolio. This emerges through a number of methods. For starters, his key works lack absolute internal consistency. Portrait of Maria Bek and Her Daughter is a prime example. The lighting mechanics seem to vary with the object struck; it seems as though the statue, human subjects, column, and sofa are subject to different light sources (with zero cross-illumination). The perspective of the room has a similar effect. I should also point to The Siege of Pskov by Polish King Stefan Batory with the skew red cross and fortress. Furthermore, the use of rectilinear forms for the axe-wielding soldiers and curvilinear forms for the people in the bottom left represents another contrast. Adding to the effect is the medley of Ancient Greek, Orthodox, and contemporary images in any given work. The deformation of space and time shows a mastery of all of the constituent elements of style.

In terms of significance, I am reminded of Gogol’s “The Nose” and Pushkin’s mythical works. Both the St. Petersburg myth and Briullov blend the contemporary Russian state with a litany of mythologies, and both conceive of worlds and narratives that grapple with the disparate pieces of 19th century Russia. Indeed, Briullov’s works show no lack of structure or narrative logic. The Siege of Pskov by Polish King Stefan Batory captures several layers of drama: the illuminated parishioners, the obscured casualties, the slashing axemen and distraught women on the fringes of the light. A balanced composition emphasizes this contrast. In effect, the piece exhibits a conflict between the divine sanction for the military campaign and the brutality of war. Looking at the historical context, Russia did grapple with both sentiments at the time due to its imperialist ventures and the legacy of the Napoleonic Wars. Hence, Briullov brings the subconscious conflict out into the open and directs its ascension to mythic heights.

Gender Dynamics in Russian Fairy Tales

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It is to be expected that a culture’s fairy tales speak to its values, especially its gender roles. This is generally the case with the fairy tales we were assigned for class on Friday, though an element of escapism also manifests. “The Frog Tsarevna” sets forth three duties for the ideal bride: weaving, baking, and entertaining the groom’s father (the patriarch of the contemporary Russian family unit). An interesting contradiction arises in how such ideal behavior contradicts the beauty standard: “Vasilisa the Beautiful” depicts the titular protagonist as beautiful by virtue of having a doll perform all of her domestic duties (with the possible exception of weaving). Similarly, it is Vasilisa the Wise and Clever in frog form who showcases two of the three idealized behaviors. Rather than merely ascribing beauty to idleness, the stories offer a vision of emancipation. After all, the two stories involve women earning freedom cruel masters and marrying into the royal family. Sure, it is not freedom in the Western sense of independence, but a fantasy nonetheless emerges to accompany the prescribed expectations.

In terms of messages for Russian men, the responsibility-escapism contrast is more dramatic. On the one hand, “Tsarevich Ivan and Grey Wolf” promotes Tsarevich Ivan’s loyalty toward his father. Similar to how Vasilisa benefits from her doll in the eponymous story, “The Frog Tsarevna” shows how Tsarevich Ivan’s mercy toward the animals enabled him to rescue his marriage. Both scenarios promote a deference to abstract authorities (albeit not the Orthodox system central to prior works). On the other hand, some stories celebrate hooliganism. Most notably, “Tsarevich Ivan and Grey Wolf” sets forth a rouge male hero. As soon as Tsarevich Ivan set off on his quest, his austerity gave way to careless sleep and greed. I was reminded of “Frol Skobeev” in how “Tsarevich Ivan and Grey Wolf” unfolded: both rogues found themselves insulated against lasting harm through compromised allies, magnanimous adversaries, and luck. Yet while the former acts as a satire of the Russian nobility, “Tsarevich Ivan and the Grey Wolf” plays out a similar drama at face value. Yes, the latter does contain sequences where Tsarevich Ivan is harangued for his duplicitous conduct and futile pursuits, but that doesn’t change how the result clashes with the authoritarian institutions of the state. So Russian men are entreated to equal parts fantasy and duty.