Tag: soviet montage

Alexander Nevsky (1938)

Sergei Eisenstein | 1hr 51min

The Teutonic Knights’ attempted invasion of Russia in the 13th century was not the last time the Slavs would feel the heat of rising German forces. Tensions between the Soviet Union and the Third Reich were similarly strained when Sergei Eisenstein was commissioned to direct Alexander Nevsky, seeing him use the titular Prince’s grand conquest of his foes to inspire audiences with patriotic solidarity. It had been ten years since his previous film, and the artistic failures he suffered while travelling Europe and the Americas brought him back to his home country, reluctantly asking Stalin for one last chance to prove his value. Supervised by co-director Dmitri Vasilyev and co-writer Pyotr Pavlenko, his instructions were simple: stay on schedule, do not stray into experimentalism, and do not embarrass the Soviet Union.

That Eisenstein was still able to create a film of such majestic ambition without stepping outside these restrictions is a testament to his incredible craftsmanship. Alexander Nevsky may not possess the formal innovation of his silent works, yet this venture into sound cinema maps out its historic clash of medieval armies with great finesse, inviting famed Russian composer Sergei Prokofiev to arrange a score that rumbles and sweeps across battlefields and villages. “The Russian lands we shall never surrender / Whoever rises against Russia will be smitten,” his male chorus sings in the opening scene after Nevsky refuses to join the Mongols’ Golden Horde. Although his vanquishing of Swedish invaders upon the Neva River has earned him a formidable reputation, his talents are not for sale. He is a hero for the Russian people, and a man this remarkable no doubt deserves his own folk songs to accompany his tale.

The horizon sits low in the frame as figures traverse barren hillsides, and disappears entirely when Eisenstein poses them against vast, grey skies.
Magnificent architecture of 13th century Russia, rising up as impressive backdrops to the rising political tensions.

Even before we reach the monumental Battle on the Ice, the scale of this narrative is equally matched by its astounding cinematic style, often tilting the camera at low angles to gaze up in awe at marvellously blocked scenes laid before us. The horizon sits low in the frame as figures traverse barren hillsides, and it disappears entirely when Eisenstein poses them against vast, grey skies, often with the domed roofs and arches of their buildings rising up in the background. The Teutonic Knights receive similar visual treatment as they overrun the city of Pskov, though they carry a far more daunting air of sadistic, almost cultlike ruthlessness, tossing children into fires and holding crucifixes aloft. Eisenstein’s montages do not unfold with the radical flourishes of Battleship Potemkin or Strike for once, but rather carry through a deep, sombre grief in their continuity editing and axial cuts, punching in on wide shots to underscore the horrific suffering of the Russian people.

Scenes of carnage and destruction in Pskov, setting in a deep, sombre grief.
The Teutonic Order possesses a cult-like ruthlessness, wearing white hoods and raising crosses as they torture innocent Russians.
Swastikas adorn the bishop’s mitre, likening his threat to rising Nazi powers in 1938.

It is no coincidence that the helmets worn by these invaders bear such close resemblance to mock-ups of German Stahlhelms from World War I, nor that the bishop’s mitre is adorned with swastikas. Next to these villains, Nevsky effectively becomes a twentieth-century man facing contemporary evils, rallying Novgorod to fight for its freedom. His rousing speeches are infectious, inspiring rival warriors Vasili and Gavrilo to prove their worthiness to the maiden Olga on the battlefield, and similarly stirring the grieving Vasilisa to seek vengeance for her slain parents.

Two warriors competing for the heart of one girl, stirring them to prove their value on the battlefield – clean, archetypal characters remain Eisenstein’s strength.
Beautiful, wintry sets as we approach the Battle on the Ice, freezing these half-sunken boats upon the lake.

Patriotic anthems continue to ring out as the peasants of Novgorod zealously raise their weapons and torches, moving as one mass towards their common destiny at Lade Chudskoe. There, Vasili and Gavrilo are ordered to take charge of the vanguard and left flank, while Nevsky leads the right flank. If his strategy works, then this should crush the Germans’ wedge attack, and the lake’s thawing ice will shatter beneath the weight of their heavy armour.

It is one thing to hear the Prince’s genius in theory, and another to behold it in action. The Battle on the Ice dominates almost thirty minutes of the film’s runtime, and stands among Eisenstein’s greatest artistic triumphs, setting a cinematic standard for medieval conflicts that would influence many legendary directors from Orson Welles to Stanley Kubrick. As the suspense slowly ratchets up in anticipation of the first charge, Eisenstein surveys the layout, obstructing shots of the Teutonic army gathering in the distance with a forest of spears sprouting from Nevsky’s forces. Vasilisa is one of a hundred Russian troops stationed across this vast, flat expanse, but here her focused expression is foregrounded, embodying the grit and strength of a nation that refuses to surrender quietly.

The terrain is vast and flat, yet Eisenstein still turns it into a visual marvel in his framing and blocking, filling the shot with negative space from the sky.
Vasilisa’s face stands out along the frontline of Russian soldiers, embodying the grit and strength of a nation that refuses to surrender quietly.
Minimalism in Eisenstein’s framing, frequently using low angles to set actors against clouds.
Welles would later recycle this shot in Chimes at Midnight – a forest of spears obstructing our view of the opposing forces.

Finally, the Teutonic Knights’ charge begins. From low camera angles that move with their horses, they seem to float like faceless spectres, and Prokofiev’s score builds its chants and horns to a dramatic climax before abruptly cutting out with the violent clash of both armies. Eisenstein is not content with simply capturing random chaos here, but choreographs the battle with tremendous clarity, closing in on smaller skirmishes between foes while tracking the movement of larger units. Though the Germans begin to make ground on the Russians, cutaways to Nevsky waiting for the moment to launch his surprise flank attack reassure us of his plan, and promise hope as he charges forward with a bold rallying cry – “For Rus!”

Teutonic Knights seem to float on the air as they rush into battle, almost like faceless spectres.
A violent clash of fighters from both sides, officially commencing one of Eisenstein’s most remarkable set pieces.
“For Rus!” – Nevsky launches his surprise flank attack, and shifts the balance of power.

Eisenstein’s editing paces this battle perfectly, slowing the action at key points as tactics are reassessed, and then building it up again with a fresh shift in power dynamics. We see this unfold when the Germans retreat into a defensive formation and rain arrows on the Russians, but also in the sweet, smaller-scale interaction that sees Vasilisi toss a wooden spar to a surrounded Vasili, saving his life. This is the sort of selfless bravery which holds Nevsky’s forces together while the Teutonic Knights crumble, forcing them onto the frozen lake where, just as he predicted, they shatter the surface and sink into its depths. Cinematographer Eduard Tisse’s practical effects are spectacular all throughout this battle, simulating wintry landscapes with lens filters and chalk dust, but it is here that his genius truly shines in constructing ice sheets out of melted glass and collapsing them upon deflated pontoons.

The Germans retreat into a defensive formation, forcing the Russians to reassess their tactics.
A constant focus on the smaller skirmishes between warriors, uniting Vasili and Vasilisi in this moment of heroism as they are surrounded on all sides.
A tremendous, resounding defeat rendered through montage and practical effects. The ice cracks, and the Germans drown in their heavy armour.

Nevsky’s victory is decisive, though as the camera slowly drifts over the field of slain warriors, Eisenstein takes a moment to mourn the sacrifices that have been made. “He who fell for Russia has a died a hero’s death / I kiss your sightless eyes and caress your cold forehead,” a lone female voice laments, before turning to the glory endowed upon those returning home.

“As to the daring hero who survived the fight,

To him I shall be a loyal wife and a loving spouse.”

Eisenstein’s camera slowly tracks over the battlefield and its bodies, quietly mourning the loss of Russia’s bravest fighters.
A proud return home, exalting the national spirit as woman and children embrace their men.

Indeed, Nevsky’s liberation of Pskov brings romantic resolution for his warriors, neatly tying up their own lingering arcs. With Vasili proclaiming Gavrilo the second-bravest fighter on the battlefield, he is the winner of Olga’s hand in marriage, while Vasili is more than happy to marry the bravest – his saviour, Vasilisi. The curtains are fully pulled back on the Soviet propaganda behind Eisenstein’s artistry in this moment, idyllically promising great rewards to those who put their lives on the line for Russia, as well as its alarming inverse to those who threaten war,

“He who comes to us with a sword shall die by a sword!” Nevsky warns, and it is plain to see here the threat that Stalin wishes to send to his own enemies. Eisenstein may have acted as a reluctant mouthpiece for the Soviet Union, though it is evident in Alexander Nevsky that he saw these political messages as an unfortunate mandate. Still, to forge an impassioned connection to the past through moving images, music, and the skilful synthesis of both – that alone justifies the noble pursuit of creativity in an autocratic culture that threatens its very existence.

Romances cleanly sort themselves out, promising great personal reward to those who risk their life for Russia.
An astounding arrangement of extras among buildings, playing to Eisenstein’s strengths as an epic filmmaker.

Alexander Nevsky is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel and Tubi TV.

Earth (1930)

Oleksandr Dovzhenko | 1hr 15min

The symbiosis between man, machine, and nature is a delicately choreographed dance in Earth, and it isn’t long after farming peasant Vasyl introduces a tractor to his community that we witness each unite in seamless synchronicity. Wheels carve out trenches in the soil, a steady stream of wheat flows through the harvester, and workers efficiently prepare it for the threshers, where unhusked grains shake in rhythmic motion along conveyer belts. After being crushed into flour, bakers swiftly mix and knead it into dough for the ovens, where bread is produced for the hungry masses.

This methodical assembly line sequence may be the closest Earth gets to non-fiction, though Oleksandr Dovzhenko also more broadly dedicates his film to depictions of collectivist agriculture, much like Sergei Eisenstein did a year earlier in his documentary The General Line. Under this system, plots of land owned by wealthier peasants known as kulaks would be consolidated into state-controlled enterprises, with the intention of freeing exploited labourers and industrialising the Soviet economy. Beyond presenting mere fact or opinion of the matter though, Dovzhenko also uses it as the basis of his invigorating visual poetry in Earth, meditating on the profound relationship that binds humans to the land that feeds them.

Dovzhenko’s filmmaking borders on documentary here as he traces the methodical processes of agricultural production in this new industrial era.

Compared to Sergei Eisenstein’s montage theory which sought to collide images in harsh juxtaposition, Dovzhenko’s editing is far more lyrical, emphasising the unity of all life on this planet. Clearly some of cinema’s most spiritual directors have drawn from this too, whether it is Terrence Malick finding divine inspiration in its graceful shots of workers in wheat fields for Days of Heaven, or Andrei Tarkovsky recreating the ethereal gust of wind rippling through long grass in Mirror. The death of Vasyl’s grandfather which occurs in Earth’s opening scene is not a disruption of such organic cycles, but rather a peaceful transition from one state of existence to another, seeing him lay down by an apple orchard surrounded by family. At the moment of his passing, Dovzhenko poignantly cuts to a sunflower gently swaying in the breeze, and thus reveals the fruits of this farmer’s labour thriving beyond his expiry.

Wind ripples through the long grass – scenes of pastoral tranquility that Malick and Tarkovsky would later borrow for Days of Heaven and Mirror.
Vasyl’s grandfather passes away surrounded by the figurative and literal fruits of his labour – his family and his orchard.

One would almost assume that Earth is a soothing expression of pantheistic spirituality were it not for the Soviet Union’s policy of state atheism in this era, though Dovzhenko’s open admiration of the Ukraine’s rural landscapes manages to skirt religious controversy, even as he turns his camera to the heavens. The low angles of vast skies become a strong visual motif here, pushing the horizon to the bottom edge of the frame in long shots, and forming cloudy backdrops to humans, animals, and plant life standing in tranquil stillness. These rural farms are as close to paradise as one can find on earth, yet political divisions in the community nevertheless threaten to strangle their natural evolution alongside Ukraine’s burgeoning agriculture industry.

Horizons hang low in the frame, minimising the earth beneath the vast open skies.
Low angles imprint people, animals, and plant life against the dark grey sky.

As we see in the economic conservatism of Vasyl’s father, Opanas, the kulaks are evidently not the only ones resistant to the collectivism that has swept through the village. He has manually worked the land his entire life, and the state’s rapid shift towards newer technologies is unnerving, driving a wedge between him and Vasyl who excitedly leads the movement’s charge into the future. Their initial confrontation plays out in mid-shots of their backs turned to each other, but as tensions rise, Dovzhenko turns them around and gradually cuts in tighter to their incensed expressions. Quite unusually though, Earth does not depict the black-and-white morality of other Soviet propaganda films of the era, instead allowing for more nuance in its characterisations. Opanas is not the villain of this piece – quite the opposite in fact, as his son’s eventual murder at the hands of an embittered kulak suddenly positions him as our unlikely protagonist.

Fine editing as tensions arise between father and son, beginning with mid-shots of their backs turned before cutting into close-ups of their incensed expressions.

Vasyl died for the new life, and so he is to be buried according to the new ways, a bereaved Opanas declares. There are to be no priests or prayers at his funeral, and in their place the community will sing songs of hope for the future. As Vasyl’s body is carried down the street in a procession, tree branches reach out to caress his face, and in one delicately framed shot he even seems to drift by on a sea of flowers. People and nature alike mourn his passing which, unlike his grandfather’s, has momentarily disrupted the circle of life.

Solidarity in mourning after Vasyl’s murder, sparking a mass procession down the village streets.
Vasyl’s body seems to float past trees and fields in these beautifully framed shots, as if giving him the blessing of nature.

It is during this sequence as well that Dovzhenko’s editing begins to broaden its narrative scope, building to a climax in its deft intercutting between multiple side characters. As the spurned Russian Orthodox priest prays for God to punish the sinners who have refused a traditional service, Vasyl’s bereaved fiancée Natalya cries out in agony, and his killer’s public confession falls on the deaf ears of the grieving, radicalised crowd. Suspicions of his culpability weren’t exactly secret, but now as the guilt-ridden kulak rolls in the dirt madly proclaiming “It’s my earth! I won’t give it up!”, it is apparent that the collectivist movement has already delivered his moral punishment.

Excellent parallel editing as anger, grief, and guilt collide at Vasyl’s funeral.

Perhaps most moving of all though is Opanas’ face among the masses, not broken by anguish, but listening to his son’s eulogy with stoic resolve. “You, Uncle Opanas, mustn’t grieve!” the speaker pronounces. “Vasyl’s fame will fly around the entire world like our Bolshevist airplane above!” Even the skies begin to weep at this point, showering the orchards below with nourishing rain, before concluding with Natalya rediscovering love and security in the arms of another man. The transfer of power back to the Ukrainian people is not bloodless in Earth, but as fresh beginnings wash away old sorrows, Dovzhenko’s formal cadences realign society’s march into the future with the harmonious, seasonal rhythms of the natural world.

A cleansing rain to wash away old sorrows and water the soil, continuing the cycle of life.
New beginnings as Natalya finds love in another man’s arms, healing her wounded soul.

Earth is not currently streaming in Australia.

Mother (1926)

Vsevolod Pudovkin | 1hr 27min

The defiance of a lone, unarmed rebel standing against a tyrannical state is unlikely to shift the course of history. Their position is hopeless, dooming them to perish beneath the boot of their oppressors as so many others have before them. It is not this singular protest though which elevates them as a countercultural icon in Mother, but rather the tragedies that have led them to this point, radicalising those who find strength in defeat. While Sergei Eisenstein was celebrating the powerful solidarity of a unified working class in Strike and Battleship Potemkin, Vsevolod Pudovkin was turning his camera towards those whose resilience is fed by anguish, painting such individuals as models of Russia’s impassioned, revolutionary spirit.

Pelageya is the long-suffering mother in question here, caring deeply for her adult son Pavel who in turn protects her from the abuse of her alcoholic husband, Vlasov. No one in this family holds any explicit political affiliations, though as subjects of pre-Revolutionary Russia, tensions run rampant in their local community. While Pavel is secretly helping local socialists by hiding a stash of handguns in his home, ultra-nationalist group the Black Hundred are bribing Vlasov to join their counterattack upon an upcoming workers’ strike, making for an awkward, unexpected confrontation between father and son when they come face to face at the protest. “So you’re one of them?” Vlasov furiously growls as he chases Pavel into a pub, only for his rampage to be halted by a stray bullet from a revolutionary’s gun.

A devastating confrontation of father and son on opposing sides of a workers’ strike, inevitably driving both towards tragedy.

As his killer is forcefully apprehended, Pudovkin takes a moment to cut away from the action. Rustling tree branches, drifting clouds, and gentle streams carry us out of the chaos, before returning to the broken body of the man who took Vlasov’s life, now lying dead on the floor. The strike is over, and the Tsarists have won, leaving a captive Pavel in the hands of a judicial system he knows is not on his side.

A peaceful montage of nature inserted within this violent assault – Pudovkin plays it perfectly, knowing when to let us step away from the action in deep reflection.

Through Pelageya’s mixture of grief and desperation though, she remains convinced that mercy will be granted if he confesses the truth. At Vlasov’s funeral, her mind wanders to that loose floorboard back at home, which Pudovkin rapidly dissolves to reveal the stash of firearms below. Later at Pavel’s interrogation, her eyes shift nervously in close-up, intently observing the suspicious police officer, her son’s stoic denial, and his clenched fists behind his back. Her torment is unbearable, and finally reaches a breaking point when she reveals the hidden firearms – only to worsen again when she recognises the dire, irreversible consequences of her actions.

A clever dissolve putting us in Pelageya’s mind, drawn to the hidden stash of firearms beneath a loose floorboard.
A tense montage of close-ups, observing Pelageya grow more anxious as her son maintains a stoic facade.

Given that Mother‘s intimate drama operates on a relatively small scale, the editing isn’t quite as spectacularly complex as Eisenstein’s, though Pudovkin’s development of narrative continuity through montage is nevertheless a remarkable achievement. Where Eisenstein produces meaning from the abstract collision of images, Pudovkin emphasises the seamless flow of emotions, placing more weight on each individual shot. Especially when it comes to the juxtaposition of close-ups during Pavel’s trial, his editing delivers an intense clash of expressions, preceding The Passion of Joan of Arc’s historic innovation of this technique by two years. There in the Russian court of law, the judges’ sheer incompetence, laziness, and prejudice are on full display, and Pudovkin doesn’t miss the chance to implicate the highest levels of government through cutaways to a bust of Nicholas II.

Pudovkin borrows from Eisenstein in his use of Nicholas II’s bust through cutaways – intellectual montage in action, symbolically comparing the corrupt courtroom officials to the Tsar.

As Pelageya’s lonely head pokes above empty rows of courtroom seats though, Pudovkin reminds us where the emotional centre of this film lies. Gradually over the course of Mother, actress Vera Baranovskaya visibly unravels, her tired eyes drooping and her posture slouching with dwindling hope. Only when her son’s sentence to a life of hard labour in Siberia is delivered does she abruptly rise from her seat, stretching her face wide with horror as she indignantly screams – “Where is truth?!”.

A minimalist composition underscoring Pelageya’s sheer loneliness as her family dwindles.
Vera Baranovskaya erupts with fury for the first time, and it is a sight to behold – the passionate anger of a mother seeing her family torn apart.

For the first time, Pelageya’s agony does not wane into dreary depression, but rather explodes with fury. Once out in the world, that righteous anger is not so easy to put back in its box either. Even when it eventually simmers down, still it manifests as seething resentment, following her all the way to Pavel’s prison some months later.

With this narrative transition, Pudovkin once again delivers more montages celebrating the natural world, contrasting the inmates’ dreams of sunny, open pastures back home to the melting ice floes of Siberian rivers just outside their cells. Spring has arrived in this frozen wasteland, and nervous excitement is in the air. Between the latest batch of visitors making their way to the labour camp with a socialist flag and whispers of a prison break, Pudovkin’s parallel editing generates palpable anticipation, drawing the reunion between mother and son ever closer.

Peaceful meadows back home versus the cold Siberian prison – Pudovkin’s scenery spans the utopias and wastelands of modern Russia.

From here, the violent action which unfolds is a tightly choreographed dance between hope and despair, carrying this daring set piece aloft upon swift, unyielding momentum. The collective effort of the inmates ramming down doors, climbing walls, and overwhelming guards is largely successful, though Pavel soon finds himself cornered when faced with that vast, glacial river. Still, the only path is forward, and thus he begins jumping from sheet to sheet in epic long shots intercut with daunting close-ups of breaking ice.

The prison break is a masterful orchestration of action and editing, carrying an energy through to Pavel’s daring escape across the river.
A climactic set piece worthy of Hitchcock, watching Pavel bravely jump between ice floes to meet his mother on the other side.

From the other side, the visiting protestors are keen to celebrate the escapee, though none are so ecstatic as his mother. Her arms wrap him in an embrace so tight that only death itself could tear them apart – and that is exactly what the cavalry tragically delivers as they ride across a large, steel bridge, firing bullets at the crowd. Kneeling over her son’s body, she weeps, and becomes the only remaining visitor to not instantly flee at the first shots.

A daunting, perfectly symmetrical composition of this giant bridge, granting passage to the cavalry who ride directly towards the camera.
Tremendous montage editing as the troops line up their rifles, the crowd scatters, and Pavel is tragically shot dead.

In this moment, Pelageya transforms. The very foundations of her motherhood have been stripped away, and yet her maternal instincts persist, inspiring her to channel that fierce protectiveness she once reserved for Pavel towards the people of Russia. Within the fast-moving chaos, we carefully linger on her picking up the socialist flag, raising it to the sky, and fearlessly facing down the oncoming stampede in an imposing low angle. At last, the radicalisation is complete. Even as she is ruthlessly cut down like a martyr in these glorious final seconds, Pudovkin recognises that not even a hundred Tsarist troops can destroy her radiant spirit, infectiously shared among those lucky enough to witness the valour of a selfless, devoted mother.

The radicalised spirit of Russia, facing down her oppressors with no hope or reward – just an undying, selfless devotion to her child.

Mother is not currently streaming in Australia.