Umirayushchiy lebed

Yevgeni Bauer's "The Dying Swan" is a finely-crafted melodrama that involves all of your emotions, making the viewer not just a witness to, but a part of the psychological struggles of its characters. The story idea is an interesting one, and the script very nicely adapts the idea to the silent screen.

There are essentially only five characters in the story, yet they present a finely-tuned balance between the three ordinary, predictable characters and the two creative geniuses who live for their art. The ballerina Gizella and the artist Glinskiy are both very interesting, and with Bauer's expert guidance the actors (Vera Karalli, who contributes an enchanting ballet sequence, and Andrei Gromov) bring them to life effectively. The artist character is especially nicely drawn, highly eccentric and obsessive, yet with enough balance to make sure that he does not become a stereotype. The other three characters are used effectively as a balance, both in the story developments and in establishing the personalities of the two leads.

Bauer's technique, as always, shows a sure hand, using special techniques at the right places. The dream sequence is particularly affecting, with an atmosphere carefully established, the camera slowly drawing away from Gizella's bed, and then the dream itself using some creative visuals.

The story of love and obsession draws you in almost effortlessly, and it's not possible to pull back, even when the sense of foreboding becomes almost unbearable. As a whole, it's a tightly constructed movie that makes a memorable impression.

Any discussion of silent film in Russia centers around the dawn of the Soviet era and its three great directors Eisenstein, Dovzhenko, and Pudovkin. Yet before World War I and the Russian Revolution there existed a flourishing film industry that is all but forgotten today. Among the people working at that time was one Evgeni Bauer (the first name has several different spellings) whose films I was totally unfamiliar with.

His career lasted only four years (he died in 1917 at the age of 52) but if the three films on this DVD are any indication of his other works then he certainly deserves the title "the greatest film director you have never heard of" given to him on the liner notes of this offering from Milestone Films. The most astonishing thing about these movies is how sophisticated their lighting and camerawork are. They are easily the equal of anything being done in Italy, France, or by D. W. Griffith at the time. Also noteworthy are the stories themselves which deal with psychological issues rarely found in films of this vintage.

Two of the three films feature Bolshoi ballerina Vera Karalli whose face is as expressive as her body. Her performance of the title piece in THE DYING SWAN from 1917 gives us a glimpse of what it would have been like to see Anna Pavlova dance. This story of a mute ballerina and an artist obsessed with death is the longest and most potent of the three thanks to its striking visual imagery. TWILIGHT OF A WOMAN'S SOUL (1913), the earliest of the films on the DVD, features a remarkably frank outlook on the plight of a woman who is abandoned by her husband after he discovers that she has been raped. Certain images from this film seem to foreshadow scenes in THE CABINET OF DR CALIGARI. The second feature AFTER DEATH (1915) deals with the effects of a woman's suicide on a sensitive young man. Parts of it resemble the cinematic landscape of early Kurosawa.

All three films have been restored from Russian archival prints and are in excellent shape considering their age and feature newly composed scores which are highly effective. There is also a brief documentary on what to look for in Bauer's works from Russian film scholar Yuri Tsivian. A major discovery for silent film enthusiasts and a real eye opener for movie buffs as well. While MAD LOVE is the title given to this collection of films, it could have been subtitled "The Russian Revelation"...For more reviews visit The Capsule Critic.

I can assume that Bergman must watched this and created THE MAGICIAN's character (Max von Sydow did a perfect job). And our infamous, notorious Hideshi Hino's cult masterpiece MERMAID IN A MANHOLE, somehow utilized this tragic novella by Zika Barantsevich (what a genius, made every artists reflected themselves in a hysterical way including both of cult of feminine and pursuing of death).

How close that beauty is between death, and I think it would be no necessity to bring up Kierkegaard's theory or Psychoanalysis to kill this beautiful images, which to itself is brilliant enough in the cinematic way.

The mute protagonist, what a brilliant sleight of hand to adapt into the silent film, well indeed, it is way more moralizing to appreciate those tragedy in a disability's POV, and we awry feel that the dishonesty of the male in the beginning is way more pathetic than the ending of killing. Perhaps, we do not have enough hysteria from this crazy artist, but what we see somehow is a quintessential and clear pathos that Russian directors at that moment bring to us, this peculiar art of morality and psycho.

I see also a lot Bergman's threads in it, like the stage-within-film, painting-within-film. And even some avant-garde, dolly out, tinted dream surrealism, and depth in the composition with a beautiful parallel action from the front and back with dishonesty of the partner, how brilliant, how moralizing (decreased the CITIZEN KANE's reputation again). And some tribute, probably to the CARMENCITA(1894)or Annabelle's dance (1894-1895) I'm tired with figuring out which dance is earlier, but they do somehow ground this aesthetic of reproducing the dance over the screen.

Poor Gizella Love the plot, evoke my new script.

Early ballet films followed the pattern of the Romantic-era ballet craze of its popular staged librettos where the dancers, almost supernatural in their movements, would invariably die at the end of the show wrapped in tragedy. The earliest existing ballet movie inspired by this century-old tradition is Russia's 1917 "The Dying Swan."

The mute heroine, played by Vera Karalli, is spurned by an admirer and seriously takes up ballet. Performing the original 1905 Anna Pavlova-dance, "The Dying Swan," in public, Karalli is spotted by an artist who is fixated by the illusion of death. He's sees something in her face that speaks of despair and ending it all. He convinces her to model for him with that look of gloom. But the earlier admirer returns to the scene, sparking a newfound energy in Karalli's face. This is when the movie's macabreness takes a twisted turn.

"The Dying Swan" was directed by Yevgeni Bauer, who had been called "the first true artist in the history of cinema." (See 1913's "Twilight of a Woman's Soul." ) Producing over 80 movies, he broke his leg on the set while directing his next film, "On Happiness." The later movie suffers because of his injury, as well as his last movie, "The King of Paris," when he was forced to direct in a bathchair while soaking his leg. While he was overseeing "Paris," Bauer came down with pneumonia. He was rushed to a Yalta hospital and died there June, 1917 at 52 years old. An actress in the movie stepped in to finish directing. His departure occurred just before Russia's transformation to Marxism in October roiled its movie industry, turning its independent cinema into a propaganda outlet for the government.

As for Vera Karalli, she played in several Bauer films and cited "The Dying Swan" as one of her best performances. A mistress to the Grand Duke Dmitri Pavlovich of Russia, first cousin to Tsar Nicholas II, she was at the palace of a co-conspirator with her lover the night the Tsarina Alexandra's confidant, Grigori Rasputin, was killed in December 1916. She fled Russia soon after the October Revolution and settled in Austria, living a long life teaching ballet.

Is the unmarked passage of time from one scene to the next a reflection of inadequacy of film-making, that the film flows so freely from start to finish - or is it an artistic expression of the great fluidity of life, of how time flies? Is the separation of the narrative into distinct scenes that don't always mesh perfectly together, slightly fragmented and less organic than in other silent films, an indication of stilted storytelling and film-making - or is it an artistic expression of how with the passage of time memories are often distilled into discrete moments more than a whole tale from start to finish? I suppose one could argue either way; cinema is an art, and art is subjective. I think it's fair to say that 'The dying swan' isn't a picture likely to appeal to viewers who aren't already enamored of the silent era; however one considers its construction, this bears the type of more staggered sequencing that is one of the aspects to turn off modern audiences.

For any subjective weaknesses, though, there is much to appreciate here. Above all, I think the writing is quite solid, if light and uncomplicated by the standards of all the years since. Zoya Barantsevich concocted an engaging narrative, one that turns unexpectedly dark and could feasibly be heralded, to some extent, as an early example of psychological drama. Scenes ably keep our attention as they build the story, and while characters are also perhaps less complex than what audiences are accustomed to from subsequent pictures, but are nonetheless varied, with strong personalities and a measure of depth. As a matter of retrospective tracing the progression of the art form, but also on its own merits, I think Barantsevich's screenplay holds up admirably well.

Director Yevgeni Bauer is noted for his contributions to the advancement of film as art, and as 'The dying swan' runs on, one finds more and more shots and scenes that help to articulate that reputation. Following from Barantsevich's groundwork, Bauer illustrates a keen eye for composition that minds the placement of actors in a shot; the camera's placement relative to a background; the arrangement of shots to reveal or withhold visual information as is appropriate for storytelling purposes in any given moment; camera movement, however modest, which seems like a strong development for cinema in 1917; and, among still other considerations, robust and dynamic lighting. To be sure, 'The dying swan' is very simple on the surface, but there's ultimately a lot going on here, from every angle, and it's a pleasure as watch as a cinephile.

The cast likewise demonstrates fine capabilities with performances of nuanced range, poise, and physicality. With each character exhibiting definite traits to set them apart, each actor gives a wonderful portrayal exploring those roles with all the space available to them. This is especially true of Andrej Gromov as the morose, obsessed artist Glinskiy, and still more for Vera Karalli as dancer Gizella; her part especially is written with swings from one one mood to another, and she navigates those shifts quite deftly.

There's unmistakably a simplicity to the story, and an ease to relationships between characters unsaddled by realistic complications, that rather make impressions as shortcuts in the telling. Whether one wishes to chalk this up to contemporary necessities of a developing medium, or a shortcoming of this specific instance, is maybe up for debate. Yet what it ultimately comes down to is that the chief issues one may claim of the title are nothing that aren't common to silent films at large. And that at once emphasizes both that, again, this probably is a feature for those who already enjoy early cinema - and that 'The dying swan,' in and of itself, is a title that is decidedly rich and worthy. Even clocking in at only a hair under 50 minutes, I think this is a fine way to spend one's time for anyone who appreciates movie history.