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A rare depiction of tenderness and mercy between mother and son. Sokurov really investigates emotional territory not often visited with this film. While the pace is deliberate, it never feels slow or turgid. In fact, the film is quite absorbing and tends to pull the viewer at its own pace. However, the son's interaction with the mother may be too intimate for some, even suggesting the touch of a lover as opposed to an offspring. Still, there's no denying the cumulative power of the images as this short film unfolds. It also has a dreamlike look to it with the many distorted perspectives that, at times, gives it a very unreal quality. Quite beautiful, in all. And quite original. It goes without saying that Sokurov is one of the great modern artists of the cinema.

Aleksandr Sokurov's minimalist "Mat i syn" ("Mother and Son" in English) looks at the relationship between a man and his dying mother. They live in the middle of nowhere, and seem to exist only to accompany each other in a world that ignores them (which was no doubt especially severe in Yeltsin's Russia). I suspect that they intended the movie as a Tarkovsky-style reflection on humanity's place in the world, but the limited dialog and long takes turn it into a weird movie. I get the feeling that one of its aims is to test your attention span.

I guess that it's an OK movie, but I think that it would have been more effective had they placed it in a larger context.

This relatively short film is about as far from mainstream cinema as you could get. It was reassuring for me to see that films like it are being produced somewhere, by someone -- especially after the experience of watching `Mission to Mars' on the same evening. An art-house goon like myself will at least have an idea of what he's getting himself into, but it's hard for me to imagine an habitual consumer of mainstream cinema watching it unless by accident or at the urging of others. If such is the case, however, and you find it confusing or uninvolving, please don't jump right into the act of declaring it `boring and pretentious.' At the very least, give it a day or two, try to think a bit about what you saw, and what others have seen in it. I hate to see a work of fine art dumped-on publicly because of a quick impression. While I wouldn't necessarily call `Mother and Son' entertainment, if anything can be called a work of art, I think it can.

Just about every frame of this film is beautifully composed and rendered. It almost looks like a series of living oil paintings. For anyone who has ever drawn or painted, even as a hobby, it gives you an urge to try to make something as beautiful as what you're seeing. But the look, sound, and essential content of the film combine to make a powerful impression, if you're receptive to it. It is an especially strong and significant experience to anyone who has an elderly parent with whom they are still close, but it seems to me elemental to anyone human who cares for another human. I've often thought there is too much dialog in many modern films, making long stretches of them seem like some form of color radio instead of real cinema, which I think of as primarily a visual medium. `Mother and Son' speaks volumes with little talk, in the manner of some of the great silent film artists. Per the DVD, the actors in this film have almost no other film credits, and to me are completely unknown. No matter. I would love to have participated in the creation of a fine work of art like this once in my life.

I wouldn't presume to recommend a film like `Mother and Son' to everyone, but if you've read the comments posted here and think you might be receptive to this film, as I did, see it by all means. You'll probably appreciate its power and beauty, as I did.

I've never seen a film like Mother and Son and I think I've been looking for something like it my whole life. It is a hypnotic dream, part myth, part fairy tale, a sad reverie. It's hard to tell from critical response what kind of distribution it got in the West unless it was next to none. Obviously, the subject of death is not what they're looking for in Kansas. But in the few "professional" reviews there is a sense of respect about Mother and Son. Even the most negative of critics ("maddeningly slow and self-conscious, the most rarefied, decadent, overripe kind of 'genius' elitist art") remark about the visual and aural impact it makes.

In Barry Lyndon, Kubrick held those beautiful scenes so the eye could luxuriate in ideal landscapes, the perfect counterpoint to Barry's character. Here Sokurov doesn't just pause but allows us to move into the scenes where faces, bodies, trees hillsides are distorted by life. My favorite scene in Mother and Son, is the one when the son decides to leave his mother on the bench as he returns home for a book of postcards. The son says to wait here. And that is what we do in what seems real time. We wait back in the forest with slumbering mother while the camera slowly adjusts our perspective. I wish I had the chance to be with my parents at their deaths. In a sense Sokurov has given me that opportunity in an idealized form.

Aleksandr Sokurov in MAT I SYN (MOTHER AND SON) has succeeded in capturing those brief, breathing moments that surround death, freezing them in an timeless mold like a shell in a crystal mass, something that goes beyond the passage of time and captures the essence of extended farewells. This brief film is one of the most probing and tender embraces of the meeting/meaning of life and death, of the continuity of a mother's soul in the form of her son, and most important, it is an elegy about the quiet power and beauty of nature.

A son (Aleksei Ananishnov) comforts his terminally ill mother (Gudrun Geyer) with gentle caresses, combing her hair, sharing dreams that are identical, and providing solace in every way imaginable. The mother asks for a walk and the son carries her in his arms to a vantage of the sea and through the gnarled trunks of the woods, a path marked by poplars. He carries her back to the little house, and as she sleeps he walks by himself, observing a little train (a departure) in the distance, a sole ship (a departure) gliding on the ocean, and amidst all this natural beauty he clings to an old tree in a tearful embrace. He returns and his mother has died: the cycle of life is complete.

Throughout this seemingly simple film Sokorov concentrates on silence, the little dialogue that is spoken is from the gentle script by Yuri Arabov. The 'actors' are appropriately not actors (Ananishnov is a Professor of Mathematics!). The sounds are of nature - rumbling thunder, wind in the trees - and the minimal music is appropriately by Mikhail Glinka and Otmar Nussio with original music by Mikhail Ivanovich. The cinematography by Aleksei Fyodorov is likely greatly influenced by Sokurov's vision: each frame is a still life of nature both with and without the two characters, and with the use of filters, mirrors and broken glass the images are indescribably beautiful. Filmed on the island of Rügen close to the coast of Germany the atmosphere is pure and unhindered by peripheral marks of civilization. Sokurov's 1997 film and his subsequent films OTETS I SYN ('FATHER AND SON') and RUSSKIY KOVCHEG ('RUSSIAN ARK') have established him as one of the most creative filmmakers of today. Highly recommended, especially for those who appreciate art, nature, and the humbling magnificence of the cycle of life.

Grady Harp

Mother & Son is a stunningly perfectionist yet tremendously moving piece of art. The plot as it is revolves around a son tending to his dying mother in a rural Russian setting.

Whilst this situation is itself moving, the primary impact of the film is sensual. Sokurov goes to immense trouble to turn every extended take into a mesmerising image worthy in-itself, using intricate filters and in-camera techniques to create a stunningly original visual landscape. The dolby soundtrack is just as complex, mixing natural ambient recordings, sparse but precise dialog and occasional snippets of classical music mixed in at a nearly inaudible level. The soundtrack itself could stand alone.

More importantly, perhaps, the style fits the subject matter. What Sokurov essentially does is kills the audience - the film has an immense hypnotic power that places the audience directly inside the gaze of the dying woman. Both times I saw this film, the entire audience was left sitting dazed and motionless for a number of minutes after the house lights had come up.

The final triumph is the films short running time of 1 hr 15 minutes. The audience is given no time to lose concentration, and the film achieves all its goals in this time.

Mother & Son must rank as one of the few recent films to qualify as a truly cinematic experience.

In just over an hour, Sokurov achieves in ‘Mother and Son' a wholly satisfying balance between the aesthetic, emotional, and spiritual elements that inform this simple but extremely profound film. In many ways the film is reminiscent of Andrei Tarkovsky, but where Tarkovsky was more specifically Christian in his metaphysical leanings, Sokurov suggests a kind of "humanist mysticism", an elegiac hymn to the natural rhythms of life and death, and the fragile poignancy of human love. As a celebration of life in the face of death, ‘Mother and Son' portrays the journey we must all eventually face with a simple naturalistic acceptance, and is perhaps the closest thing one might find in cinema to what I can only describe as a sort of "non-religious sacredness".

Sokurov's approach here is very ‘pared-down'. While the dialogue is kept to an absolute minimum, the soundtrack is extremely expressive and is an essential element of the work - the wind, the sea, the "music" of the earth, provide a brilliant counterpoint and commentary to what is seen. The look of the film is remarkable, inspired by the paintings of Caspar David Friedrich, but while the images are indeed beautiful, they are never merely "picturesque". From beginning to end, Mother and Son is a work of genius.

At least we all now know which film Gus van Sant watched over and over again prior to heading into production on his ill-disciplined 2005 film Last Days; itself a wondering, pondering piece about fumbling, mumbling characters (one of whom was perilously near to death) occupying a space which wasn't quite a jungle but carried with it an eerie humidity that didn't have it feel like a straight up forest. Like Aleksandr Sokurov's 1998 film Mother and Son, it even has an extended take of its character standing before a train track as a train rumbles past, said Russian picture a film I wanted to like more than I did, in that despite the overpowering atmosphere of dread; the distinct style its director applies to such an idea and the generally affecting content, it is quite remarkable how little Mother and Son actually amounts to. It is a frustrating film, straddling the line between feature and short, which still doesn't quite go down as well as you'd like but isn't entirely indigestible – you gnaw at it, searching for the flavour and the taste which has excited many others but eventually just end up with a bit of an ache and a sense of bafflement.

The exploration of the ties of the titular mother and son begins with the opening shots and will continue on through to the last; both parties initially occupying a bedroom and laying down beside one another. They are Aleksei Ananishnov's character, simply named 'Son' and his similarly simplistically named 'Mother', payed by Gudrun Geyer. Given this first sighting of them, we sense they're close; the speaking over of one another in murmured tones about each of their respective dreams at once insinuating that this is perhaps how it is they sleep come the evenings since they may very well have just awoken; while the idea that either of them speak over one another dismisses what would commonly be highlighted as rude, instead suggesting a deeply rooted bond that sees them acknowledge one another through verbal confirmations that are played unorthodoxly. The film's bulk is a collection of sequences seeing them stick together through the thickest and the thinnest, the recognition of Mother's slowly decaying health and Son's acknowledgement that he will be here for its now seemingly short duration.

Where it is they are both based for the duration of the film is at Mother's residence; a small, wooded house which has been overtaken by the greenery around it. She is a woman whom possesses very little; a shed not so far away housing a few other items the only other structure in the area. They occupy a world which looks as if it has just fallen out of a nuclear war; the skies constantly greyed out by rolling clouds, vast fields of grass and pastures of nothingness playing host to the majority of what's on the ground as rumbles of thunder plague the above. Mother's home even looks as if it has taken the odd shelling, its worn and decrepit state seemingly uninhabitable and yet they stay on, leading one to wonder if it is one of very few structures left. Sokurov even goes to further lengths to disorientate the audience by capturing the majority of the compositions of the surrounding area through an array of lens' not always fit for the crispest of focus.

Most of the film will consist of the pair of them speaking to one another on issues of a highly philosophical and rather theological nature, jarring given the spaced out timbre of both the piece and their mannerisms; the item which sticks out the most is just how little the majority of it seems to refer or indeed contribute to anything else. He must provide her with medicine and for the most part of the film, must carry her around as they journey from place to place, all the while speaking in hushed and mournful bleats. Most of Mother and Son is indeed surface, but what a surface packed full of drained cinematography; the acknowledgement from two lonely parties that an immense bond of many-a decade is on the verge of ending and a really downcast, incoming doom-laden sensation as everything appears to play out in a post-apocalyptic world; a mythical backdrop somewhat unnecessarily destroyed by the odd background shot of the rest of civilisation operating.

I read it is a part of an ongoing trilogy, the sorts of trilogies filmmakers rather than studios produce; proper trilogies, that are linked by thematics and undercurrents rather than continuations of slight stories and protagonist misadventures. Oddly, and admittedly in hindsight, the film appears to have more in common with a recent 2008 Sokurov effort entitled Aleksandra. Said film was about a bond between a young man and an elderly female relative whom appears worn and withered by life, but where Aleksandra followed a woman whom had travelled to meet with her grandson whose job might see him precariously close to death on occasion, the premise here is reversed: Ananishnov's character the outsider travelling to his mother's rural and cut-off place of dwelling to spend time with her as she nears her respective 'time'. Aleksandra eventually had both characters come to inhabit a locale in which instruments of warfare such as tanks and rifles were lined up in rows of a dozen-or-so, but made to look quite beautiful or poetic by way of composition despite their purpose - in Mother and Son, extended shots of items more commonly associated with the peaceful or tranquil are given an uncanny edge in the form of expansive fields and woodland rendered quite unnerving through cinematography and such. There just seems to be a core idea here that Sokurov has left out; there is very little meat on the bone which inexplicably in turn, leads to a gristly experience; something which is easy to admire but difficult to recommend nor get overly excited about.

After opening with a distorted tableau, Sokurov moves slowly into images of stones, grass; he's a naturalist who's addicted to nature; a humanist who's dedicated to the intimate. (The mother and son in his film are not characters or types or ciphers or "performances.") The camera movements are so beautifully slow that they're hard to describe -- imagine the precision of "Ordet" had it been made in color, those images still and hazy, like pastoral paintings with glowing hues of light. They're some of the purest images I've ever seen, comparable to "Barry Lyndon" and "McCabe & Mrs. Miller." What is so startling is that the color makes the film seem modern -- and such a hazy yet lucid color, Maddin-like in its Expressionism and schemes: fable-like and emotionally incestuous. It exists outside time, its only indicator a train within the film; existential emptiness represented visually. The film passes by quickly, with the perpetual wind that sounds like the ocean. It's as if the film is a progression of the most beautiful visions imaginable, the various images of death.

It is something different -- art should be unique, if we're talking about art in the vein of Picasso, Shakespeare, and Bach, shouldn't it be an experience like no other? In fact, this could easily be compared to Tarkovsky, the most obvious comparison. But for me it feels more like Dreyer without the self-conscious dialogue. It couldn't be said to be complex -- it's two characters talking rather simply. But what it lacks in complexity it makes up for in singularity. (The images are at times so rich that it's almost comical -- is this a film set or not?) It's the kind of film that's easy to make fun of, intruding on the most personal moments of this pathetic-looking mother and her son who constantly speaks in a hushed tone -- you imagine one of those "Seinfeld" Village Voice parodies. It isn't emotional or intellectual; I don't even know if it's profound. But it's a masterpiece, plain and simple. 10/10

Not haunting. Voyages no where no. Mediocre performances. Stunning landscape shots don't achieve very much by the way of real meaning. As a visual art piece, these shots are the only redemptive elements of the film.

Most praise on here consists of an imposition of meaning onto the notes not played. It doesn't seem like the meaning was there in the first place. Dreadfully dull-- the space the film carves out for you to reflect on whatever, turns out to feel entirely empty. This emptiness is not imbued with meaning-- it's just boring.

Phenomenally boring.

There is very little in the movies today that is anything like Mother and Son. Certainly the slow movement, which mirrors life itself, is far away from any editing that we normally see. But what is there to prepare one for the absolute exquisite beauty, scene after scene. Because of the slowness, because of the beauty, because of the subject, it is painfully exquisite. One feels, at once, the heavy pain and suffering of this life and its beautifulness. The two seem to coexist like oil and water, pulling one in two directions at once. Of plot, in the normal sense, there is little or none. Everything is about the hiddeness and mystery of all things, all relationships, the blowing of the grass in the wind, a young man carrying his mother, Death. What more is there to say?

The prior commentator went a little overboard. The film is surely not the greatest of all time. It is, perhaps, the greatest LOVE FILM of all time. The beauty of the landscape (note that this is Russia in deep summer -- deep winter would have produced a much different effect - but then the mother is dying, and the contrast between her physical state and the lushness of the fields and forests is necessary to keep one from being overwhelmed by sorrow ) is itself commentary on the beauty between these two. No pretty girl, no surging music, no reasons even for the love. It is just there. Titanic. Not tied to sex or gratitude. JUST EMOTION. The dialog is spare. There is no third person. Though everything moves very sluggishly, this fits perfectly. This is not a movie. It is a poem. Extremely fine too as an essay on what the core of love looks like.

This film is about the relationship between a sick mother and her son. (surprise.) Surely, this isn't for the average viewer: narrative is slow, events nonexistent; the film consists mostly of painting-like "still-lives" with very little dialogue. The mother and son walk along the beautiful sceneries (the film is done on the island of Rügen, by the coast of Germany), approach each other, take contact by embracing and hugging.

Nick Cave, the rock singer, said somewhere that this film is the most beautiful he has ever seen. I agree that it is maybe Sokurov's best: the twisted images of the landscapes, great camera work and almost meditative feeling are something I love to see in the cinema - if nothing else, just as an attempt this is a great film, instead of all the run-of-the-mill "narratives" we come across.

Beautiful. Word.

This movie was tragically bad.

Why anyone would compare this mess to the works of Tarkovsky or Terrence Malick is completely baffling to me and probably will be to you, too.

I loved Russian Ark, but this was simply a poorly made student film with no passion, no zeal, and no interesting qualities whatsoever. Some of the silent and slow moments were rather meditative, but I would've much rather have seen this as a short film.

The story was dull and trite, and frankly I didn't appreciate the message or idea at all. A mother who loved her son that much should let him go into the world and be his own man. That's the definition of true love, not keeping him around to wilt along with she. And if the young man loved his mother, he would "let her go" rather than allow her to suffer and strain in such pain.

Maybe it's a philosophy conflict between myself and this director, but I did not see this movie as a love poem, but rather an example of true selfishness on the part of both characters.

And the cinematography. Oy vey! This is where I was most confused, as already suggested. When I saw the box for the DVD, I was already a bit surprised to see the description of the film (which concentrated almost solely on how beautiful the movie looked). From the pictures, it looked like a made-for-TV movie in some backwater E. European town...

... and indeed, when I put the movie on, that's exactly what it looked like. Such splendid landscapes, to be sure, but sullied completely by ridiculous filters that distorted each view and that put a faded greenish brown tincture to everything. This did not represent a dream or a hallucination or the "act of decay" for me. It just looked bad.

Really bad. And even beyond the silly, obfuscating filters and the like, the compositions were horrendous. There was no semblance of aesthetic responsibility in the creation of the shots. Looked like they just randomly set the actors in various places and blindly left the camera wherever it would stand.

If Lars von Trier were to try yet again to make "the crappiest film ever" as he tends to joke about doing, he couldn't make something that looked this awful. For people to excuse the terrible narrative concept for the cinematography is just strange. Perhaps I need to see it on the big screen?

Thank goodness this one is so short. Ugh. Avoid at all costs!

these film is, whit no doubt, the best film ever. i found in sokurov's work my inspiration and my guide in future works. i study cinema here in Portugal and i find these film to be a supreme, masterwork in cinema history. it's not possible to go further than sokurov did in this film...

I had completely forgotten about the film until I was chatting to a friend today and an image suddenly formed, unbidden in my mind, and I could perfectly see that wonderful scene where the son supports his mother and her skin seems almost translucent, and all that can be heard on the soundtrack is her laboured breathing, and those wonderful painterly scenes of verdant meadows. I doubt I will have a cinematic experience like watching this film again. Rushing home from work, I went out to meet a friend and see it. Sat in a beautiful cinema that smelled of red velvet, we got to see this film, where just for a second time stops and slows. All that matters is sensation, and beauty, and plot or character just fades away... the most wonderful film, so different and so fragile.

Rarely does viewing a film become an act of meditation, yet there is a moment in this film when the labored breathing of a dying mother merges with the wind rustling leaves of grass and the shaded breeze swirling through the trees. Elements here harmonize whilst apart but all converge blissfully unto a singularity. Like all films, Mat I Syn has its flaws, but looking back I can only recall it as the minimalist masterpiece that it truly is.

I recognize that a film unique as Mat I Syn may not be for everyone, but if received with an open mind and a spirit of calm, the rewards reaped can be plentiful.

"Mother and Son" is a film about solitude,self-knowledge, and death; and the contingency of the body as central to each. In other words, it shows that human-ness means an integration between the body and the self; that there is no self apart from the body; and that the love of another must embrace the self /body as one.

Sokorov's mother-son intimacy does, I think, occur, but it must be all but non-existent in western culture, especially in its films, and literature. So, it is incredible to view this silent feat.

I think much of "Mother and Son's" success lies deeply in what it refuses: modernism, post-modernism, Freudianism, doublespeak (violence is love), cynicism, misogyny, male detachment, and abstract freedom.

What "Mother and Son" accepts is an approximate equality between a woman and a man. Yes, it's the son's nurturance which compels our attention, but he's only returning what he's received. What has been her entire life as a mother and teacher, has in this short period of her illness and death, become his life--and he embraces it fully and ordinarily.

The mother's and son's mutuality is actually pretty profound. They have the same dream, share the same silences, humor, touch, and gaze. Each takes their cue from the other, compelling each other's attention in face to face, or head to head, communication. They enclose and disclose each other with a kind of certainty which comes both from their shared solitude and their loyal affection.

In a certain sense, their companionate relationship bypasses their mother and son roles. Although her concern and worries on his behalf are real, she has in some sense given herself to his care. But not to the care of the family head, not even to the care of a man--his transforming bond with her no doubt severing his bond with men and to male identity--but to the care of an equal who may be as close to her as to a daughter, and whose affection is removed from control and power. Galatians 3:28 reads "there is no male or female," and here in this indeterminate world, removed from public demands and interpretations, this appears possible.

But there's no abstraction in this intersubjectivity. The son is not just nurturing; he does what a mother does in these circumstances. He cooks, he keeps house, he deals with all the details; he grooms and cleans his patient; he carries her on walks, and he reads to her from dusty postcards. In short, he looks to her physical and spiritual needs--in a consoling, innovative, and certain manner.

It is the very liminality of their present circumstance that enlarges their experience, of one another, and of their own specific lives. (The monastic ideal never vanishes). Poverty, isolation, and illness seem to root them in being, in a fruitful solitude, allowing them an inner quiet to reflect and ponder life's design, their anxiety, and the nature of consciousness.

The son's final walk is like a rite of passage. This time he walks, jogs, runs over much of the earlier terrain but now it takes all his courage and honesty because now solo, his course is uncharted. Painful contemplation under ancient tree trunks, gazing out to sea... these seem mother symbols, and spell out a continuity in the discontinuity which is his mother's death. The pilgrim knows through his growing self knowledge that his way will now be hard, but that despair will not take hold. He knows that his dead mother hears his words: "We will meet. Wait for me. Be patient, wait for me."

Believe it or not, "Mother and Son" is one of the only art-house films I would recommend to be shown at a daycare, particularly during naptime.

Although Aleksandr Sokurov's "Mother and Son" really is the harrowing and hypnotic mini masterpiece of slow cinema many have claimed it to be, it still has its moments of tediousness. Your average viewer would likely sleep throughout a majority of this film, no matter how brilliant it truly is, and although I am a strong appreciator of slow cinema, there were moments during this tragic little film in which I was ready to doze off.

However, I can now realize that my patience was well rewarded, for this film is among the most beautiful ever made. I am not sure what type of lens was used to shoot this film, but it looks gorgeous and dreamlike. This tale of sorrow and love is told in a manner that is both real and surreal, it is a film that sits in silence, forcing its viewers to witness the pain of separation and death.

It's a film that is both sad and slow, but it is also poetic and beautiful like few films have ever been.