samanthamarciafarmer

Ivan Vasilievich Changes Profession is a film capable of appealing to audiences outside the Soviet Union with its universally smart humor. From the onset it is obviously influenced by Western cinema; one cannot tell if Shurik's bedroom is Russian or American until Mussorgsky's Boris Godunov begins playing from the TV. This homogeneous consumer culture is evident all throughout the film, especially in the luxuries of Shpak's apartment, the electronics black market, and the character of Shurik's wife (in the dream plot line). In fact, Shurik's wife in the separate dream world seems almost a caricature of Hollywood with her posters and dreams of falling in love with Yakin and finding fame. Gaidai's camera work utilizes quick photography. This is exemplified in the episode in which Miloslavsky is robbing Shpak's apartment and cannot get out; Gaidai cuts to the many faces of statues and paintings that, in context, are shocked and seem to mock him. This is an amusing riff on the Kuleshov Effect. The sets themselves are also fantastic, and Ivan's (the tsar, not the bureaucrat) palace appears lifted straight out of Eisenstein's 1947 feature. Ivan Vasilievich (both of them), too, is an exact copy of Eisenstein's tsar, pointy beard and all! These visual homages would have been obvious, one assumes, to Russian audiences of the time and surely would have made it all the more comedic. However, Gaidai's humor is not intrinsically Russian, like earlier Soviet comedies, but appeals internationally. The humor lies in the situational: the police/Oprichniki chase, the switching of identities, the mad scientist, even a regal food fight. The only context clues to the time are slight jabs at Soviet rations, the black market, and housing codes. These tropes give the film the ability to transcend the trappings of a fifteen- minute fame, and allow it to be just as funny, if not more, decades later.

Tarkovskii's Mirror is profoundly episodic in that it consists almost exclusively of dredged up memories, real or imagined, from the life of the central figure, Alexei. The structure is nonlinear, but the viewer never seems to get caught up on the slight confusion created by this. The only aspect that truly hinders understanding is the decision to have Terekhova play not only Alexie's wife but also his mother; one is always a little unsure of which time sequence the film is in. This uncertainty can only be intentional as it enhances the overall theme of the fallibility of human memory. The viewer, however, is oftentimes too distracted by Tarkovskii's beautiful sequences to mind having to untangle the nonlinear plot. The camera follows characters like an unseen eye, although occasionally veers off to focus on a seemingly-unrelated poetic image, like a vase that slowly falls off the edge of a table. The color cinematography saturates the world in a dreamlike palette, such as the early scene in which Alexei's mother sits on a fence in the Moscow countryside. When Tarkovskii switches abruptly to sepia and black and white tones, it's hardly noticeable, and is remarkably well done. Surrealist elements are interspersed, such as the scene in which Maria washes her hair as plaster falls all around her and water floods the house. These instances, combined with the occasional poem narrations, make the disjointed remembrances even more dreamlike. At the end of the film, it is still unclear what exactly the viewer has seen, and another viewing is necessary. The memorable scenes stick in one's head just as much as casual pans of the camera. Tarkovskii's Mirror is full of something, and it's just not clear yet what that something is.

I imagine that Courier holds a similar place in Russian youth culture to the role John Hughes' movies hold in American culture; at the very least, I hope it does. Shakhnazarov's film is recognizably set in the 1980's, but it also seems to be timeless (besides the idiosyncratically 80's music), and this is perhaps due to the selective portrayal of Moscow. The majority of cinematic depictions of the city, where famous locations are shown at a remarkable landmark to frame ratio, make the city so prominent that it's hard to differentiate it from human characters. In Courier, however, the uniformity of Soviet dwellings and buildings make the city anonymous; the only obvious references to it are in name only. This adds to the universality of the film and Ivan's experiences. While Ivan frustrates with his nonchalance and frequent lying, the poetic scenes that Shakhnazarov fits in the corners belie the heart of the film, as well as the inner workings of Ivan's mind. Stereotypically "African" warriors haunt his dreams; he converses with a bust of his very-much-alive father in a mausoleum. At the end of the day, Ivan comes off as scared and confused at the aftermath of his parents' divorce that overshadows his mother's and his own life. The film vacillates between a gritty, saturated daily life and a surreal subconscious effortlessly. By the end, the viewer finds themselves sympathizing with Ivan. It is an accessible film for all ages in any era, although unfortunately my own life doesn't include break dancing to heavy synthesizers as the sun sets.