Des monstres et des hommes

In an era in which the video shop shelves and TV schedules are dominated by formula-pap, it is refreshing to find a film that stimulates thought for days afterwards. The question is: what's it all about? Is the film commenting on life in pre-revolutionary Russia, on the exploitation of 'freaks', on the corrupting power of pornography, or perhaps none or all of these? I came away from it thinking that the film was primarily about the ways in which film-making can be misused; that it examined the role of those drawn into 'the pornography industry' whether exploiter, exploited, or idealistic artist more interested in technique than subject matter. In thinking about that interpretation I found myself pondering the role of Putilov, seemingly an idealist; would it not be more accurate to describe him as amoral, as the artist determined to remain aloof from the degradation and humiliation required for completion of his projects?

I think the film raises questions about the extent to which the film-maker can remain untarnished by the moral issues that he purports to examine objectively and from a detached perspective. If Putilov agrees to co-operate in the filming or photography of the naked, frightened Siamese twins or of the whipping of a young woman can he really escape responsibility for their plight? Is he really entitled to walk away with his reputation intact? The immoral Johann is easier to condemn: he is a sadist who will kill at the drop of a hat to preserve his way of life and business. A jury would take much longer to decide its verdict on Putilov.

Every so often one has the pleasure of discovering a film so unusual that it seems that nothing has influenced it in its creation of a world all its own. One such was David Lynch's "Eraserhead", another, Charles Laughton's "Night of the Hunter" and now to join the august company is Alexsei Balabanov's "Of Freaks and Men". By dressing up a most scurrilous plot in images of extraodinary elegance and beauty the director has created an astonishingly original entertainment. Turn of the century St. Petersburg is hauntingly captured in beautiful sepia visuals of waterways and bridges, classical exteriors and upper class salons. But behind this facade the very devil is at work in the form of a gang of pornographic photographers who insinuate themselves into the lives of two respectable families whom they summarily proceed to corrupt. In due course the daughter of a highly respected engineer is enjoying having her naked buttocks spanked by an old crone in front of the camera, while the blind wife of a doctor in the other household becomes infatuated with another member of the gang who is only there to satisfy his paedophiliac fascination with the adolescent boy Siamese twins she and her husband have adopted. And this only for starters! As things go from bad to worse and goings on become more depraved - although admittedly we see no more than the odd spanking - the visuals become ever more beautiful particularly when the twins travel to the snowbound east and the girl travels west to wander a townscape of blowing autumn leaves. I think Balabanov is trying to say something about the voyeuristic nature of the camera and the progress of photography from still to moving pictures. To probe for deeper meanings wound not be very fruitful from a film whose raison d'etre, I suspect, is simply to intrigue and delight.

Very odd Russian film, with a modern, almost postmodern theme (concerning Siamese twins and pornography), but set in the early years of the twentieth century and shot in a faux-naive style that one might almost believe was that of films from this period, if one was not aware of what they were really like. There's much to enjoy: the beautiful sepia photography (of the Russian winter, and of eyeballs); great facial acting; the downright oddness of plot, scene composition characterisation and movement; the sudden discontinuities, and the semi-random, peculiarly worded captions. Hardly a movie in the traditional sense, but still a work of art.

"Pro urodov i lyudej" (Aleksei Balabanov, 1998) is a dark, quixotic look at the earliest days of underground film making in Russia. One of its most interesting features is that the entire film is shot in sepia tone rather than full color, no doubt to emphasize the dreariness of its subject. There are a few outdoor scenes that show us a blue sky, but aside from that the entire film is rendered in that muted sepia color.

The sad-faced, willowy Dinara Drukarova plays Lisa, a young woman who is imprisoned in her own family home and forced to pose nude for the camera, being whipped on screen for the pleasure of a few depraved male customers. After several months of captivity, Lisa escapes and heads for the big city to make a new life for herself... but discovers that the degrading scenes she has been posing for have become a fixation for her.

The title translates into English as "Of Freaks and Men."The "freaks" part comes in when we are introduced to young Siamese twins, joined at the waist.

But as the film progresses, we perceive that the twins are the least "freaky" characters in the film.

Though the scenario is admittedly somber, there is a richness of tone and a strong storyline driving the film forward. We want to know what ultimately happens to the heroine, Lisa, and to the young conjoined twins. "Of Freaks and Men" is justly celebrated for these compelling virtues.

remarkable as portrait of survive of a world. for the images. for the inspired cast. and for the courage. a film about freaks and sins, about appearances and profit, about victims as reflections of cruelty against them. and the perfect music as respiration of story. a puzzle of characters. and the links who defines each. traces of absurd and pornography. and a new era.at first sigh, a Russian Salo. in fact, only sketch of a society after Communism.cold, direct, without masks. or, maybe, a parable. its sense seems be not very important. because it could be a film about viewer. a puzzle for self definition. or a testimony about the secret rooms of few lives.