Category: 1925

Sergei Eisenstein | 1hr 15min

It is no coincidence that history’s most effective propaganda films have also featured fast-paced, avant-garde editing, and some of cinema’s finest at that. This device despicably valorised the Ku Klux Klan in The Birth of a Nation, celebrated Communist revolution in I Am Cuba, and stoked political conspiracy theories in Oliver Stone’s JFK – yet Battleship Potemkin nevertheless looms large among them all. The uprising of the working class against their Tsarist rulers is the central conflict here, and with Sergei Eisenstein labelling the oppressors “vampires” and “monsters,” it doesn’t take a great stretch of the imagination to realise where his loyalties lie.

This film is a product of the Soviet Union in its earliest years, not so much aiming to disseminate historical facts than to rouse passion and outrage from civilians. Under the purview of an artist who understands his craft on an intimate level though, Battleship Potemkin also transcends its own political message. The five methods of montage that Eisenstein developed in the early 1920s stand true across time, unaffected by shifting ideologies or opinions, and are cleanly distilled here in their purest forms. From this mechanical arrangement of moving images, he composes a narrative that disengages from conventional notions of heroic individualism, and in true socialist fashion identifies the collective masses as their own champions.

If we are to pick a protagonist from the vast ensemble gathered in Battleship Potemkin though, that label must fall on sailor Vakulinchuk, who leads his crew’s initial rebellion against the cruel commanding officers. Even then though, his presence after Act II is largely symbolic, spurring on the Bolshevik cause as a martyr. Besides the obvious political dramatisation, Eisenstein represents the story of the real Vakulinchuk relatively accurately here, using a little-known historical event as the foundation of his artistic experimentations.

With Battleship Potemkin‘s dedication to packing hundreds of extras into the scenery and covering the full totality of this revolt, it may very well be one of the shortest epics ever put to screen, coming in well under 90 minutes. This can be mainly attributed to the sheer amount of visual information being thrown at us in the brisk, economical editing, though Eisenstein’s magnificent mise-en-scène shouldn’t be underrated either, particularly in scenes set upon that remarkable monument of naval warfare that is the Potemkin. Here, he carves out a rigorous array of geometric shapes from its industrial design, slicing through compositions with long, grey cannons and trapping its crew among vast webs of rope. Symmetry is crucial here as well, particularly in his blocking of the crew in militaristic formations along both sides of the deck, while his immense depth of field capture them in motion across multiple levels of the ship.

Inside the sleeping berth where Eisenstein’s story begins, the hammocks crowding the frame almost look like cocoons, hinting at the imminent emergence of newly born insurgents. Talk of revolution has been passing around for some time, and after they refuse to eat a hunk of rotten, maggot-infested meat, the threat of execution is visualised in a haunting dissolve of bodies hanging from the masts.

The rising tension here demonstrates the first of Eisenstein’s five methods, metric montage, which creates a tempo based on a specific number of frames for each shot. As a canvas cover is thrown over the condemned sailors and a firing squad marches out, the pacing accelerates, cutting between rifles raised in perfect rows, Vakulinchuk’s stirring fury, and the officers’ malicious grins. This immediate danger is what finally triggers the riot on the vessel, leading into the first of Battleship Potemkin’s bravura set pieces.

Eisenstein’s staging here is marvellous, navigating the multiple battles unfolding across the ship with rhythmic montage – the adjustment of each shot length according to the movement unfolding onscreen. Meanwhile, cutaways to the Russian Orthodox priest onboard reveal him holding his cross like a weapon, demonstrating intellectual montage through the symbolic association of juxtaposed shots. These sailors are not merely rebelling against the government or its armed forces, but are subverting organised religion itself, toppling the power structures which bolster the Tsarist rule.

This mutiny is a victory for the Bolsheviks, yet for now celebrations must be put aside to mourn the loss of Valukinchuk, whose body is delivered to the Port of Odessa and set up inside makeshift shrine. Ships gently pass by as bereaved crowds gather, looking to pay respects in powerful solidarity. Eisenstein’s editing is not defined by tempo, continuity, or symbolism here, but rather uses complementary close-ups and long shots of unified crowds to capture the melancholy lament in the air, typifying his method of tonal montage. When one loudmouthed man tries to turn this wounded sorrow into antisemitic prejudice, fists clench and brows furrow, but not in support of his bigotry. Everyone can see that he is appropriating this tragedy for his own purposes, and thus he is promptly shut down.

As the Potemkin docks at the Port of Odessa and its locals gather in camaraderie, Eisenstein continues to navigate these swells of emotion with remarkable dexterity, even injecting colour in 108 frames of a waving red flag that he hand-tinted himself. As such, the shift from enamoured celebration to terror arrives with a jolt, heralded by a woman’s head violently spasming in uneven jump cuts as she is shot down by an advancing Cossack army. Before we can even register the threat, the infamous massacre upon the Odessa Steps has begun, seeing Eisenstein pull out every montage technique at his disposal to deliver seven minutes of raw editing genius.

From either end of this Soviet landmark, the stairway appears to stretch far into the distance, forcing citizens to flee towards either the infantry descending from above or the cavalry waiting to pick them off below. Eisenstein’s camera does not offer these soldiers the same empathetic close-ups as it does their victims, only ever taking their perspective by descending the steps with their steadfast regiment, and moving in a line as unyielding as the geometric formations of their raised rifles.

While this wall of white uniforms mows down everyone in their path, children are horrifically crushed in the stampede, pushing one devastated mother to pick up the broken body of her son and face her assailants. She stands alone in their long, dark shadows, begging them to end this terror, and for a brief moment we wonder whether she has at least slightly stirred their hearts. Within this fable of good and evil though, Eisenstein leaves no room for moral ambiguity – this mother is shot dead on the spot, and the Cossacks continue their forward march.

As the Odessa Steps sequence torpedos towards its climax, Eisenstein demonstrates the fifth type of montage that he defined as a young film theorist, inducing a more complex emotional response than metric, rhythmic, or tonal montages on their own. Overtonal montage combines all three here, suspensefully inching a baby carriage closer to the steps, following the motion of its uncontrolled descent, and spreading panic among onlookers who helplessly watch on in terror. The pacing accelerates as we cut from the baby’s face to the spinning wheels, and then just as it tips over, we are confronted by a snarling Cossack soldier striking the camera. Denying us the clean resolution of a long shot, Eisenstein instead chooses to end this sequence on a dissonant note, tightly framing a gasping woman with shattered, blood-streaked spectacles before fading to black.

More than any political message or isolated image, Eisenstein recognises that emotion in film is derived from the timing and arrangement of these shots, congealing into a sweeping indictment of the merciless Tsarist regime. Beyond the disenfranchised men leading the Bolshevik cause, the innocence of women and children are at stake in Battleship Potemkin, and with it, the lifeblood of the very nation.

If the government considers this slaughter the best course of action to quell growing dissent among civilians, then they underestimate the furious passion of the Bolsheviks. “The ship’s guns roared into reply to the massacre,” the intertitles read, before we witness the Potemkin’s cannons shatter the Odessa Opera House into pieces.

That night as its sailors rest and prepare for an imminent confrontation with the Tsarist squadrons, Eisenstein settles an anxious tranquillity across the ship, silhouetting men against moonlit skies and slowing his montage editing down to a gentle lull. When that fleet of enemy ships begins to emerge over the horizon though, Battleship Potemkin launches into its final set piece, fearfully anticipating the gunfire that will surely sink this vessel of hope.

Machines whir and black smoke billows from the warship’s chimneys, hanging a dark, ominous cloud overhead as it steers towards the squadron with nothing but a tiny destroyer by its side. Rather than meeting them with violence though, another far riskier tactic is considered. “Signal them to join us!” the sailors call out, raising flags and beseeching peaceful passage.

Once again, Eisenstein uses his metric montage to drive up tension, weaving close-ups of rotating gun turrets and rising cannon muzzles among long shots of the naval battleground – though this time bloodshed does not eventuate. “Brothers!” the sailors of the Potemkin call to their comrades aboard the Tsarist fleet, who eagerly allow them to pass between their ships. Hanging from the railings and crow’s nests, crews from both sides wave to each in solidarity, spurring on the Bolshevik movement which in years to come will take over all of Russia.

Such bright optimism marks a notable shift from the bleak cynicism which ended Eisenstein’s previous film Strike, though if anything it simply proves the versatility of his editorial orchestrations, coordinating hundreds of dynamic images into fervent expressions that span humanity’s full emotional spectrum. In the hands of this young Soviet film theorist, cinema becomes a symphony of notes, rhythms, and textures, and Battleship Potemkin towers within the art form as the peak of such visual, kinetic innovation.

Battleship Potemkin is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.

Sergei Eisenstein | 1hr 22min

Much like the factory workers uniting against their exploitative managers in Strike, Sergei Eisenstein walks a very narrow line between anarchy and order. There is the temptation in both political and artistic rebellion to throw caution to the wind, tearing down traditional institutions with reckless indignation, and yet revolution for revolution’s sake is no way to pave a path for the future. As furiously impassioned as these Bolsheviks may be, unity requires discipline and willpower, ensuring every action is driven by ideological principles rather than emotional instinct.

So too does a rigorous formal purpose underlie every visual and editorial choice that Eisenstein makes in Strike, pragmatically applying the ‘methods of montage’ that he had innovated as a young film theorist. In approaching his craft with such mathematical precision, he effectively set the stage for the Hitchcocks and Kubricks of the future, understanding the compositional details from which profound sensory experiences of art are born. More specifically, it was the ability to cut from one image to another which he identified as cinema’s distinguishing feature, separating it from theatre, literature, and painting as a radical mode of creative expression for the twentieth century. By connecting two individual shots in this manner, a third idea is born which is not contained in either, but is rather delivered through the sum of both.

Eisenstein was not the only filmmaker of the 1920s to be experimenting in this arena, yet Strike was among the first features to demonstrate the enormous potential of Soviet Montage Theory, wielding cinema as a tool of propaganda. Set in pre-Revolution Russia, its narrative raises up the working class as their own heroes, planning to instigate a mutiny at their factory before the suicide of one labourer prematurely lights the spark. Close-ups on Yurik’s hands fastening his belt into a loop, a stepladder being kicked over, and the belt suddenly tightening around a metal beam tell his story through visual inferences, and from there Eisenstein executes a fervent set piece unlike any other that came before.

The length of the average shot in Strike sits a brisk 2.5 seconds, half that of the typical Hollywood film, though within this sequence it is even shorter. Machines are halted, feet run by, and tools are thrown into a pile, not to be picked up again until concessions are made. Quite unusually, there are no main characters here who stand above the fray. In true socialist fashion, strength instead lies in the masses, and as such Eisenstein dedicates many wide shots to his magnificent staging of their movements in powerful unison. The visuals are frantic, but never uncontrolled, propelling the scene forward as loose rocks are thrown through the foundry windows and the office gates are forced open. With nowhere left to hide, two unfortunate managers are carted out in wheelbarrows and tossed into a filthy river, at which point the temporarily satisfied crowd heads home.

Cinema is clearly more than just a narrative vehicle for Eisenstein, as this first day closes with an image that serves only to reinforce the strength of the movement – three labourers folding their arms and directing stern gazes at the camera, while a spinning wheel is projected over the top of them. Equally though, this double exposure technique is also later used to dissolve the image of a clawed hand over the strikers drawing up demands, threatening to crush their aspirations of justice. Their stipulations are nothing outrageous by modern standards – an eight-hour workday, 30% pay increase, civil treatment by management – but their momentary peace is nevertheless interrupted by troops seeking to disperse them.

Through Eisenstein’s parallel editing, their sit-down protest makes for a compelling contrast against the small group of wealthy shareholders gathering in a dark office, puffing cigars and using their demand letter to mop up a spill. There, the image of a lemon being juiced in a squeezer underscores the visceral brutality of the police’s attempted crackdown, once again pulverising the proletariats in the hands of their superiors.

When it comes to orchestrating cinematic collages such as these, Eisenstein is in a league of his own, calculating the length, placement, and type of each cut according to the needs of the scene. Dissolves do not necessarily indicate the passage of time, but are woven organically into montages like a legato musical phrase, while close-ups of incensed faces are alternately played with rapid staccato. Even lively flourishes of style are integrated here in the visual blending of undercover agents with animals, noting their shared features and mannerisms. As we examine their frozen images in a photo book, these spies suddenly spring to life with comical glee, tipping their hats at the camera before promptly leaving their individual frames.

If these editorial rhythms liken Strike to a symphony, then Eisenstein is its maestro, merging every cinematic element in orchestral harmony. Despite his aesthetic perfectionism extending to his mise-en-scène and camerawork as well though, it is an unfortunate consequence of the film’s brisk pacing that many critics also underrate the strength of its individual shot compositions, which deftly build out the expansive world of this factory and its surroundings. The industrial architecture of glass and metal juts out at geometric angles, weaves through machinery, and frames bodies that are always in motion, particularly in those recurring tracking shots past rows of men at work. There is rich detail to be gauged from the camera’s tighter framing of people and objects as well, gazing at an upside-down, spherical refraction of the town’s streets through a glass orb in a shop, quite literally turning society on its head as the strike drags painfully on.

The junkyard of half-buried barrels marks another superb set piece as well when the crooked King of Thieves is introduced, seeking five unscrupulous types to loot and set fire to a liquor store. Crawling out from the ground like worms, his ragtag followers set out to do his bidding, instigating a riot as gathering masses cheer on the violence. “They’re trying to incite us! Don’t give in to these provocations!” the wiser proletariats among them shout, though the authorities need little justification to enforce their own oppressive rule of law. Rather than turning their high-pressure hoses on the blaze, the firemen cruelly blast the crowd, with the military arriving sooner after to capitalise on this moment of vulnerability.

This is the unchecked influence of capitalists in a corrupt system, Eisenstein demonstrates, enforcing their own rule through the arms of the state. All throughout Strike, the first line of Vladimir Lenin’s epigraph declaring that “The strength of the working class is in its organisation” has proven consistently true, though now as their unity fractures, the relevance of its second part begins to surface as well.

“Without the organisation of the masses, the proletariat is nothing.”

The devastation which follows is unrelenting. It does not carry the bittersweet tragedy of Hollywood melodramas, nor the haunting ambiguity of German Expressionism, but this conclusive downbeat rather reflects the gut-wrenching national trauma which eventually drove the Bolsheviks to revolt in 1917. A child is tossed over the edge of a balcony, hands reach to the sky in desperation, and as these labourers and their families are rounded up like animals into a field, Eisenstein intercuts their massacre with the slaughter of a bull. It is a symbolic and editorial device that Francis Ford Coppola would later use in the final minutes of Apocalypse Now, though where that signified the death of a madman, here we mourn and rage at the murder of innocence.

We are right to feel disgust. Eisenstein would not have used such dehumanising imagery if he did not agree that the physical desecration of a living creature is a deeply disturbing sight to behold, yet only in witnessing this bold artistic statement might we experience a fraction of the repulsion the Russian people held towards their oppressors. While cinema was still young, few people understood its immense power in shaping political thought, and even fewer mastered this skill through a dextrous, virtuosic command of moving images as Eisenstein does here in Strike.

Strike is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.