Potomok Chingis-Khana

This is an unusual project, deeply polemic like all Soviet cinema of the period but with the entire 'tyrants and proles' puppet play relocated to the far eastern steppe; so standing in for the exploited but spirited with fight peoples are now the indigenous Mongols, but again trapped between antiquated, superstitious religion and a cruel ruling elite financed by unethical capitalism. Workers back in Moscow and Lenigrand were supposed to relate.

Pudovkin is talented in making the equivalence, he intercuts the military aristocrats being pampered and groomed for an occasion with the Buddhist priests being helped in their ceremonial attire to receive them. The meeting of these two oppressors is marked with secret dances made to look chaotic, and Buddhist music made to sound intentionally grating and dissonant.

The mockery continues inside the temple, with the all-knowing, wise high lama revealed to be only a child; he looks apprehensive as everyone accords him the utmost respect. The insidious comments are particularly egregious when viewed in context of what the Buddhist were about to suffer in the hands of the Chinese comrades and how much of that elaborate spiritual culture was trampled under the mass-suicide of Mao's agricultural reforms.

Most of it flows by without much incident; vast dusty landscapes, petty human cruelties. Wars, and counterwars. The plot is eventually about a humble Mongol fur trapper being mistaken for the heir of Genghis Khan and groomed by the military to be the puppet ruler of a new nation.

Pudovkin was never quite an Eisenstein or Dovzhenko; he could concentrate his films into a motion as pervasive as they did, but couldn't sustain for as long. So we get bumpy stretches across otherwise pleasant vistas.

But then we have the ending, absolutely one of the finest pieces of silent cinema. It is a karmic hurricane of splintered image; motion that begins indoors with a fight is eventually transferred outside and escalates in a revolutionary apocalypse of stunning violence that scatters an entire army across the steppe like dead leaves. Trees, dust, crops, dirt - all rushing before the camera like Pudovkin's montage is so frenzied and powerful it threatens to rip apart the very fabric of the world.

Watch the film just so you get to this part, then watch side by side with Kuleshov's By the Law for the haunting aftermath of the apocalypse that begins here, and Zemlya for how it's endured. The call is, as usual, for revolution, but we can use it now in all three films as a broader metaphor about the effort to release the energies of the soul, about a metaphysical breakthrough.

Watch like you were having your soul trained for this breakthrough.

"Possess your soul in patience!" my grandmother used to chide me until I could settle down and get with whatever new experience I was about to endure--and learn from. Today's viewer will need to do the same to get with the unusual rhythms of this amazing saga--with the mediocre print, with a narrative that at first seems scattered, and with a culture totally different from much of anything encountered today. But it is worth it, and by the end, you may be totally mesmerized by the quiet force of a man who inadvertently becomes a hero, by powerful film editing from Podovkin that steadily reaches a stunning conclusion, and, if you allow yourself to immerse yourself in Mongolia in the early part of the last century, an experience unlike anything in modern film.

Russian film director Vsevolod Pudovkin did something unique to compose in what was his final film for his 'revolutionary trilogy,' depicting the Bolsheviks' success in creating the USSR. Instead of setting his 1928 "Storm over Asia" in Moscow or in his motherland Russia, Pudovkin's locale was in Mongolia. Pudovkin, as proven in his 1925 classic "Mother," avoided filming collective masses of people uprising against the capitalistic Russian government as his Soviet filmmaker colleagues consistently did. Instead, he focused on one individual to portray the Bolsheviks' struggles opposing imperialists, this time in the guise of the British.

Otherwise known as "The Heir to Genghis Khan," Pudovkin's 1928 work is largely fictional. His hero is a son of a Mongolian trapper who journeys to an European fur trading outpost to fetch a large sum of money for a prized silver fox pelt. Cheated out of its real worth, Bair, the Mongol (Valery Inkijinoff) gets involved in a fight with an Englishman before his friends whisk him away to the mountains. In those remote heights he becomes involved with the Bolsheviks' battle against the British. Bair is captured and is about to be executed before a soldier discovers an amulet on Bair given to him by his mother. She had earlier found the prized possession on the ground after it had dropped out of a monk's pocket. This saves Bair's life since the amulet reads the bearer is related to Genghis Khan. Pudovkin shows the path of the revolt of the locals against the foreign oppressors through Bair's eyes, strongly paralleling the 1917 struggles of the Bolsheviks against Imperial Russia.

Soviet critics didn't quite fully understand the obvious analogies of Pudovkin's Mongolians plight to Russia's own struggles. Their complaints ranged from the movie wasn't 'Russian enough' since it was one of the Soviets' first movies to show non-Russians, to there's no glorification of the current Soviet government. Pudovkin's editing technique of creating "the psychological guidance of the spectator" failed to display the obvious propaganda points critics were so used to seeing in their new country's movies. The director's strong point that was pervasive in Soviet films in the 1920s was his montage sequences. Pudovkin's famous quote, "Editing is the foundation of the film art" was the blueprint to deliver the "Storm Over Asia's" dramatic sequences, especially its conclusion. This was to be Pudovkin's final silent movie. With the advent of sound, audio would become an intriguing and challenging dynamic to bring to screen for the Soviet filmmakers, whose forte was displaying visual montages conveying multi-layered meanings. Even though he continued producing movies into the early 1950s, Pudovkin never reach the prestige he earned during the helicon days of the 1920s silent movies.

"Storm Over Asia" is regarded as one of Pudovkin's most highly respected work in the Western world, earning recognition as one of "1001 Movies You Must See Before You Die" entry.

There's a scene early on in Storm Over Asia where Mongolian fur traders are bringing in their pelts for a British imperialist to purchase. The power dynamic is so stilted and he treats them with no humanity, haughtily tossing down a couple of coins for what he deems a piece is worth after having seized it. When he does this with a particularly beautiful and rare fur, the previously placid locals get rankled over how unfair he's being, and the tension is palpable. It's a fantastic scene and while it may seem like communist propaganda, it was a completely legitimate critique of capitalism, a system which if unchecked, invariably allows for the selfish exploitation of the poor by the wealthy - much like an American film like Ninotchka contained valid criticisms of communism in the Soviet Union. This was a five star moment and I wish the film had managed to remain focused. The visuals are also brilliant, including breathtaking landscapes in Mongolia, artistic close ups, and fast cut montage sequences. These scored high marks for me as well.

Where the film falters is in the story it tells, and the excruciatingly slow pace it takes to tell it. Shortly after the fur trading scene, the local flees and comes across a group of Russian partisans fighting British forces. Huh? You might think, wondering when such activity took place, and you'd be right to doubt it. And the history here matters, because it was actually the Soviet Union that was actively involved in undermining local autonomy in this region. To make a film showing someone else committing the evil your protagonists actually committed is similar to old American westerns which are heavy on Native-American violence instead of showing any semblance of the brutal genocide, and it's wrong to do so, no matter how skilled the filmmaker.

The film shows some authentic footage of Buddhist ceremonies which held some interest to me, but they aren't filmed in a way to foster understanding of the culture, but rather, seem to emphasize how "exotic" the natives are. Ordinarily I wouldn't care as much and just be happy something like this was filmed for posterity, but here it felt out of place and elongated and already bloated film. The shots of the reincarnated Lama on his throne as a baby were pretty fun for me though, I must confess.

The business of making the supposed descendant of Genghis Khan a puppet leader takes far too long to unfold though, and the scenes with the British aristocrats were a chore to sit through, even they it did bring us back around to the beautiful pelt in the story line. There is something to be said for the fury of the Mongolian man at the end, and it's impressive that he's shown to be righteous in the face of racism. Right before that, you see, the British businessman has said white people "must be protected from the encroachments of colored scoundrels!", and the British general, smoke billowing out from behind him as if he were the devil, orders him to withdraw, because he has his own plans. That's a wonderful moment.

Ultimately, I liked the power in the anti-imperialist message and the visual artistry, but 131 minutes was too long, and the historical distortion was too tough for me to overlook. In any event, it's not one I'd like to see again, except in clips of the finer moments.

Contrary to what the English guy says (hey, the Brits are the bad guys in this movie, whaddaya expect), this is to my mind the most impressive work of Soviet silent cinema-- an epic with several dazzling sequences of rat-a-tat-tat editing that invite comparison with Gance's Napoleon, as well as a deliberate build to an explosive climax that, in its willingness to delay gratification until almost the breaking point, has the operatic grandeur of something like The Godfather. Highly recommended (in fact, highly recommended before you see less accessible works such as October or Potemkin).