Olhos Negros

There are many wondrous qualities to this movie, especially the performance of Marcello Mastroianni. I only want to mention one scene, my favorite. It occurs when Romano (Mastroianni) arrives by train in the Russian village of Sisoev where he is to set up a glass factory.

Upon de-training all he sees is a peasant woman with a cow. Suddenly, on the other side of the tracks a band plays. Romano walks across the welcome-carpet to a crowd of townspeople giving him a raucous reception. Actually folks here want the factory for themselves . The Italian is offered Russian bread to sample. Young girls bear doves and present the man with wreaths. The mayor recites a poem and gives a welcome speech. A medal is bestowed. Kisses galore are planted.

Singers and balalaika players appear. Caviar and lethal vodka is thrust upon the man, who is barely able to cope with its potency. It's a distillation (pun intended) of Russian-ness which overwhelms the guest as he is conducted by carriage to his hotel and carried in, tired and soused, later muttering "Sabatchka," the name of the little dog belonging to Anna, the Russian girl that has aroused his passion. Great, great!

It's a movie in the best Mikhalkov's manner: simple but deep; funny and serious; a Russian picture with (this time) Italian colors; and as always, about the deepest depth of a Russian soul. Some may say, Mikhalkov's movies are of universal things - true, but they always touch something deeply Russian. Waiting ... love ... faith ... sincerity. When all that meets in one point, harmony and happiness come; when at least one element is missing, ... Romano comes. With all the consequences. Mikhalkov reminded me again - we live by the consequences of our actions. (i need to add a bit - they asked for the 10th line here :) BUT quantity is not quality!)

A Russian/Italian co-production sounds like an uneasy marriage of mismatched temperaments, but 'Dark Eyes' is a remarkably cohesive mutual effort offering the best of both worlds: a wonderfully romantic story, a healthy love of laughter and high spirits, and a lingering air of Slavic melancholy. It's being sold as a showcase for the perennial charm of Marcello Mastroianni, but the film has more than just his performance to recommend it. The script, condensed from several tales by Anton Chekhov, has the elegant simplicity of a classic short story, following a charming but buffoonish husband in his pursuit of an attractive young Russian back to her native country, where he discovers a nation of people even crazier than he is. Some of the smaller roles have been drawn for the broadest effect, but under Nikita Mikhalkov's meticulous direction every character emerges as a full blooded human being, with Mastroianni himself offering a sensitive portrait of a man too in love with life to take it seriously. A nagging reservation: the final irony revealed in the epilogue adds one coincidence too many, and comes close to spoiling the already poignant mood. Just pretend it never happened.

There's no really much you can say and analyze about this movie. It's not a movie by itself, it's a piece of art lost in the ocean of mundane cinema of the 20-th century. It's like the great literature, the great paintings of history, impregnated with a mystical and hard to define quality in it's texture. For me this is not simply a "movie", i say it again. Like Nostalghia or Andrei Rubliov of Tarkovsky , here the poetics transcends what we usually call cinema, or a film, because it gets a life on it's own, and becomes independent to critical observation. It's like a tiger in the Siberian forest, that you have to simply admire. A tiger is beautiful because it's a tiger, Oci Ciornie it's beautiful because it is Oci Ciornie. Something divine happened to Mihalkov and to the cast when thy made this piece of art. It was the greatest shame and scandal when the jury at Cannes awarded "Sous le Ciel de Satan" the Palme D'or, but who cares...Time is for the art what is for the wine. The good one gets better, the cheap one gets sour and becomes vinegar.

Yes, its story is an old chestnut. There's an excuse for Marcello Mastroianni to tell a story about himself and a Russian woman, and he does it, and there's an aftermath. But the story is so good and so well told (and acted and directed) that the device is like an old friend. This is one of Mikhailkov's best, right up there with Burnt by the Sun. It draws on Heifetz's Lady with a Dog (and Chekhov's short story too, for that matter) and parodies (or pays homage to) Fellini's 8 1/2--both just right for this Italo-Russian piece about Italians and Russians, which I found a pure delight. It revels in both poking fun of and warmly enjoying both Italian and Russian types and moods. For me, there was the additional pleasure of seeing Innokenti Smoktunovsky, who played the title role in Kozintsev's Hamlet, now middle-aged and as fine an actor as ever. Will it ever be released on DVD? It's about time this one is rediscovered.