Andreï Roublev

This movie is set in mediaeval Russia, the world of unspeakable cruelty, poverty and injustice. And yet, this is a profoundly humanistic, profoundly spiritual, profoundly individualistic and profoundly uncompromising film. The photography is absolutely beautiful, mesmerising, original and superb. But it is the anguished soul and conscience of this film and of its main hero that truly make this a great picture.

There are no cliches here, no stereotypes and no sucking up to the audience. A brutally honest and yet very moving, touching and optimistic film. And it is not about the nature of a genius. Rather, it is about a man's ability and duty to preserve and be true to his humanity, his freedom, his soul, his heart and his gift, no matter what century it is or what the circumstances are. Watch it to remind yourself of what it really means to be human.

Just as Andrei Rublev faced doubt about whether or not, having sinned, he could continue his celebrated iconography, I likewise find myself in two minds about Andrei Tarkovsky's film. My experience with the director's other work is, as usual, limited, but I still couldn't shake that persistent expectation that I would love 'Andrei Rublev (1969).' There is certainly much to love about it, but my appreciation for the film can best be described as admiration rather than affection, and, though I can speak with only the utmost praise for Tarkovsky's achievement, it doesn't occupy that exclusive space close to my heart. The film is a deeply-personal religious work, an examination of faith and moral values, and so perhaps it's inevitable that the film didn't leave such a deep impression, considering my preference towards atheism; one unfortunately cannot discard all personal convictions for the mere purposes of appreciating a work of art. I do, however, like to think that the majesty of cinema, in most cases, is able to transcend religious boundaries.

Andrei Tarkovsky released his first feature-length film, 'Ivan's Childhood,' in 1962. Even prior to its release, the director had already expressed interest in filming the life of great Russian iconographer Andrei Rublev, even though very little is actually known about his life. Working with a screenplay written by himself and Andrei Konchalovsky, Tarkvosky began filming in 1964, and a 205-minute cut was screened for a private audience in Moscow in 1966. The critical response, however, was mixed, and sizeable cuts were made to the film's running time, before a 186-minute version screened out of competition at the Cannes Film Festival in 1969. I'm not entirely sure which version I ended up watching; the time counter indicated somewhere around 165 minutes, though my brief research couldn't uncover any major missing sequences. In hindsight, I should probably have held out for longer and acquired the Criterion Collection DVD, which restores the picture to its four-hour glory. In several years' time, when I inevitably decide to revisit Tarkovsky's film, I'll make certain to do just that.

'Andrei Rublev' is divided into nine distinct segments, including a colour epilogue displaying Rublev's weathered icons as they exist today. They each explore a facet of the great painter's life, placing particular emphasis on his faith in God and how it relates to his work on frescos and icons. Interestingly, though Rublev (Anatoli Solonitsyn) himself appears in most of the stories, he is often hidden in the background, a passive observer on the behaviour of others, including Kirill (Ivan Lapikov), who is jealous of Rublev's recognition, and young Boriska (Nikolai Burlyayev), who successfully casts a bell using faith rather than knowledge. One consequence of this narrative format is a lack of cohesiveness in Tarkovsky's storytelling. We adequately follow the plot of each segment, but, as the whole, the film doesn't seem to build towards any notable climactic revelation – the completed film is equal to the sum of its parts, which is still very impressive, but pulls it short of being a masterpiece. Once again, however, I must acknowledge that the 205-minute version may potentially correct this problem.

One statement that can not be disputed, however, is that 'Andrei Rublev' really is a beautiful piece of film-making. Vadim Yusov's black-and-white photography captures the exquisite delicateness of nature with almost heartbreaking intricacy; even the raindrops of a midday shower are imbued with the gentle elegance of the Heaven from which they ostensibly fell. Tarkovsky finds simple beauty in the quiver of a tree branch in the breeze, the leisurely flow of a river, herds of livestock fleeing from an aerial balloon. In portraying the complete opposite, the destruction of nature, the director is capable but not quite the master he is otherwise. The raiding of Vladimir by a troop of Tatars was obviously supposed to be the centrepiece of the picture, but Tarkovsky underplays every detail to such an extent that his "chaos" ultimately winds down into a staged conflict. Compare this sequence with Sergei Bondarchuk's burning of Moscow in 'War and Peace (1967),' in which one feels as though he has descended into the fires of Hell, and the contrast is telling.

One of the finest films ever made. Films like this are what give the medium its purpose. It is rich, beautifully shot and acted, and extraordinarily powerful. Like all great works of art, it requires many viewings and much thought to discover the various layers of intellectual and aesthetic meaning within it. That is why a simple description of the plot would give the prospective viewer little idea of what the movie is actually about. True, it is the tale of Russia's greatest icon painter. But it is also a rumination on art, the artist, relgion, love, culture, conformity, cruelty, and much more. See it and discuss it with some bright friends.

Having had the privilege of visiting Russia and anticipating a return next month, I admit to being a complete Russophile. The mystery, emotion and history of this remarkable country have found places in my soul I was scarcely aware of. This masterful film manages to evoke the sensations I felt during my month's long visit. The Russian people, among the dearest I have known, have suffered as have few others in all of history. The art of this magnificent country is always tinged in dark tones. The music, if not in a minor key, evokes minor key emotions. The literature, even with Gogol, clearly delineates the suffering and hardships with which all Russians are familiar. Therefore, it was not surprising to find all of this so strongly depicted in Andrei Rublyov. However, the beauty that somehow transcended the misery and bleakness constantly before the viewer was redemptive. The scene in which the iconographer holds the sobbing boy is one of the most touching and devastating on film. I sat before the screen with tears streaming down my cheeks. It may sound hyperbolic, but I found this film absolutely life-changing. I am returning to Russia to volunteer in an orphanage. Moreover, I am fully prepared to end my life in that great enigmatic country. Indeed, this film has changed my life. I cannot recommend it too highly.

I follow several threads of fine films. Most of these concern intelligent notions of structure, of architecture. Welles, Greenaway, Eisenstein, Kurosawa. These mend sense and intellect enhancing both.

But there is another thread, one that eschews selfaware structure -- where idea is anathema. Nature is celebrated. Rich intuition and meditative spontaneity are sufficiently nutritious in some hands, but these are amazingly few. The so-called 'new wave' tried it, at least initially. Lots of other appearances as well, mostly failures, some lovely. Among the attempts, I know of only two filmmakers who have mastered this tricky approach of avoiding knowledge: Tarkovsky and Malick. Of these, Malick is more abstractly sensual.

After all, Tarkovsky must deal with that dark cloth of Russian self-pity, that tradition of grand themes and epic fate, something which does not burden Malick. So the metaphoric content is heavy. That's fine, an acceptable skeleton for a nearly three hour meditation. All is self-referential: a set of images about an imagemaker: the actor's wife played the retarded girl who factors so importantly. During the production he was cheating on her with who was to become his second wife. The girl goes off with a Tartar, leaving Rublev. Many other scenes refer to Rublev's situation, resolved by Tarkovsky's action. For instance, we have a sequence where Rublev hesitates to paint a scene of fateful pain. This is followed by Tarkovsky doing just that. The extension of metaphor among parts of the film (ballooner and bellringer to Rublev's story) extends from the film to the filmmaker and thence from him to us.

What I found even more interesting was his confidence in complex compositions and long, long multiperspective tracking shots. Compared to other swoopers, this camera seems curious, impetuous, not at all as if the shots were planned. Hard to believe it is only his second feature. This alone expands one's imagination with only a couple viewings, but combined with the notion of folded metaphor (including visual metaphor) it becomes a truly great and singular work.

(Some classical symmetries touch multiple places: a jester within the play; solitude in the context of relationship; creating in the unknown; broken symmetry through one twin killing another. Some new ones: pagan fire and water underlying ritual exuberance, either sex or religious art.)

Alas, the DVD has a discouragingly vapid commentary. But then I guess that's the whole point, and with the loss of potatohead Soviets, we need to substitute the next best thing.