A Comissaria

One of the reasons that Commissar was initially banned in the Soviet Union was the use of religious imagery in the film. One example of this is shortly after Vavilova, the Commissar, has her baby. She walks by a graveyard, and the Russian Orthodox crosses are prominently featured in the shot. This can be interpreted to mean that Vavilova was forced to carry the baby, which she initially considers a burden, in the same manner that Christ had to carry His cross. It could also symbolize the idea of a life cycle, where Vavilova just had a child and is then seen at the cemetery, where she is surrounded by death. Another instance where crosses appear in the film was when Vavilova, Yefim (the father of the Jewish family she is forced to stay with), and his family were boarding up the windows and doors to prepare for the White Army soldiers that were coming. In one shot, Yefim is nailing a beam across a window, perpendicular to another board which clearly makes the shape of a cross.

The other major example of religion that can be found in the film is when Vavilova travels to the priest, and then to where the synagogue had been. She does this in order to have her baby baptized, or recognized in the Jewish religion. This would not have sat well with Soviet censors, seeing a strong female Commissar traveling in search of someone to baptize her child. I found this scene particularly moving because it seemed that Vavilova simply asked the priest for directions, and would rather have had her baby brought up to be Jewish. This shows the positive impact that Yefim and his family had on Vavilova during her stay.

I was surprised to hear that "Komissar" was filmed in 1967, a year when the USSR was already firmly past Kruschev's thaw and entering the repressive Brezhnev era, because there is something very "thawish" about this film. The general criticism of war, the dignity of ordinary people during a time of calamities, and the juxtaposition of battles with moments of civilian life, all hearken back to the ideas expressed in "The Cranes are Flying" (1956). As in all Soviet cinema, many of the central ideas are expressed through symbolism. This makes the film somewhat difficult for viewers who are not used to this style, but most people tend to find it refreshing and psychologically stimulating. It certainly prompts more post-film discussions than current American cinema that simply shoves the director's point of view down the audience's throat.

Some of the themes that I found particularly interesting were: the use of the innocence of children to depict the horror of war, the image of saddled horses without riders galloping into battle, and, of course, the father dancing in the midst of a bomb raid. Most of all, I thought that the change in Vavilova - going from a rough, battle hardened Red Army officer to a nurturing mother, is the most poignant aspect of this film. The scene where Vavilova is hunted my soldiers for having a child mimics her own persecution of a man who leaves the army to be with his beloved. The soldiers turn out to be figments of her imagination, but the point is obvious. However, Vavilova's decision in the end of the film (which I will not reveal for fear of getting blacklisted by the IMDb NKVD) is puzzling in light of the changes in her character. I suppose that Askoldov's opinion that a person's nature cannot be changed by one experience is contrary to my own optimism. Still, I find the end to be somewhat unrealistic.

Don't be tricked by the rating. This movie is wildly, unforgivably underrated on IMDb. To speak of its beauties would take me volumes. Suffice it to say: find it, if you can (it may be still available in good video stores, on VHS) and be enthralled by one-of-a-kind movie. As opposed to overrated 8+ 9+ c... like American Beauty or the Korean Oldboy and other movies full of either vapid pomposity or of guts and gore and blood and nonsense, Komissar is an extraordinarily beautiful and fluent meditation on human nature, war, religion, childhood, good and evil. Miss it at your own peril.

10 out of 10

We are indeed fortunate to view this film at all as it was banned in 1967 for being both pro-Semitic and anti-Bolshevist. Thanks to the spirit of Glasnost its director Aleksandr Askoldov who had been barred from film-making during the intervening twenty years(!) was able to piece it together from various copies. Its status now as a masterpiece of the seventh art is indisputable.

The sweeping camerawork, cross-cutting, composition and powerful imagery call to mind earlier masters of Soviet cinema. Alfred Schnittke's score is by turns searing and tender whilst the performances of the three principal actors are simply superlative.

Nonny Mordyukova as Klavdia, the title character, is mesmerising. Although her physique limited the parts she was offered, she was quite rightly considered one of Russia's finest. She is matched by impish Rolan Bykov as Yefim the tinsmith and the splendid Raisa Nedashkovskaya as his wife Maria.

Those who have seen the film will recognise that there are certain scenes which the ideologists of the regime at that time could not countenance and by refusing to toe the party line and make his film less humanistic, Askoldov paid a heavy price for his courageous stance.

This masterwork at least survives as a testament to both his talent and strength of character.

During the Russian Revolution, the Red army enters an isolated town and leaves behind a female revolutionary, Klavdia, who has become unexpectedly pregnant. Klavdia stays with a Jewish family to have her baby.

A remarkable film, but one which was left unfinished. The director, Aleksandr Askoldov, is only credited with one movie, and it as if he put a lifetime of ideas into this single film.