 Russian Ark (2002) Director Sokurov and cinematographer Tilman Büttner have orchestrated one of the most spellbinding visual spectacles ever attempted, guiding a steadicam through St. Petersburg's State Hermitage Museum (one of the world's largest art museums), from gallery to gallery, past hundreds of actors dressed to reflect several different eras in Russia's history. The museum embodies Russia, and its inhabitants provide snapshots of the country's pre-Revolutionary history, with menacing hints of what would come in the 20th Century. In a way, it's a giant piece of fan fiction, with Russian history as its topic rather than, like, Star Trek. Familiarity with the subject and setting, as well as some knowledge of art, is probably necessary to penetrate the elliptical narrative, but it's not so intellectual as to completely weed out those who dozed off in high school social studies. The structure is novel – as the movie opens, an unseen narrator whose point of view we share is awakening to the scene of people entering the museum. Gradually, he begins to piece together where he is, but can't pinpoint when, as the costumes keep changing. He has a companion in a nimble and enigmatic stranger (Sergei Dreiden), whom he addresses only as "Sir," and who offers commentary and appreciation of the museum's collection as well as the various scenarios they encounter. What's amazing, given the "Quantum Leap"-style setup, is that you reflexively slip into the narrator's shoes, trying to navigate the museum and understand what is going on around you … and since there are no cuts in the film, you simply float along, pulled ever inward, as in a dream. When key figures (Peter the Great, Catherine the Great, Nicholas II & Alexandra) appear, there is a huge sense of payoff, since these moments offer the most easily accessible keys to comprehending the film's overarching statement. It's an immensely savvy piece of filmmaking, all the more appreciable for being so charming … this aspect is provided mostly by the mysterious stranger, who we come to understand as symbolizing old Europe. The approach-repel dynamic between him and the narrator (symbolizing Russia from a 20th century perspective) plays out in an ebb-and-flow of movement, as they lose each other and find each other many times, reconnecting to revise their mutual understanding. Instead of traversing the museum (and history) chronologically, they simply wander around, ping-ponging through the halls and galleries, pulling open doors to reveal, alternately, grand ballrooms or sometimes shady backrooms where they are not welcome. It feels like a long and challenging dream, hinting at unseen violence and horror, but always returning to comfortable spaces, even if that comfort is uneven. How Sokurov managed to make this film is beyond my naïve potential to understand it. In essence, he set about nine different movies in motion and, with a single, unfaltering, penetrating, incision, wove a path through them to reveal something much larger than a simple historical drama might have. It's an amazing illusion, one that is terribly true and beguiling to witness. Remembering Russian Ark as the "longest single-shot movie ever made" would be accurate, but not purposeful … it should, instead, be seen as a film that used a monumental achievement in technique to produce art, as important and lasting as any of the works hanging on the Hermitage's walls. Yes, it's as elitist as Lord of the Rings is populist, but ultimately it's about as eternal a statement.
Review by La Fée |