Is Russia finally waking up to Putin? Maybe, judging from the huge Navalny
protests. Regardless, the Russian economy has been asleep for years and the
nation’s institutions of civil society have been corrupted by the former KGB
agent in charge. Can we therefore interpret this art-house fantasia of a Russia
mysteriously stuck in a state of unnatural slumber as a commentary on Putin’s
authoritarian regime? Viewers certainly have the time and space to develop
their own interpretations while watching Maria Ignatenko’s In Deep Sleep,
which screens as part of the online Russian Film Week USA.
Viktor
was always prone to anti-social behavior, but the death of his wife made him
even worse. He is not expressive, but he is definitely hurting inside. We know
he comes to a bad end from the prologue, but we will see from flashbacks how he
reached this point—sort of.
The
centerpiece of the film is the long, eerie passage of the commercial fishing
vessel crew-member returning to his hardscrabble industrial port, only to find
the entire town asleep in their cars, places of business, or out in the open, exposed
to the elements. Viktor even tries to save one elderly sleeper from the harsh Russian
winter.
The
weird nocturnal sleeping scenes are indeed quite striking, but Ignatenko’s use of
flashbacks is often confusing. In Deep Sleep looks haunting yet gritty,
but the intended takeaways remain obscure. Obviously, Viktor’s isolation and
loneliness are a symbolic product of grief-related depression, but the
hard-bitten protagonist is a difficult figure to embrace or even fully
understand.
During the Soviet era, the underground Samizdat literary tradition required
true courage and painstaking devotion. Those who spread the work of banned
writers risked banishment to the gulags themselves, yet they spent hours
hand-copying censored works. Anatoly had that kind of dedication to Varlam
Tikhonovich Shalamov, who spent 17 years in Stalinist work camps. He was
eventually released and partially rehabilitated, but the last three years of
his life were spent in a Soviet nursing home with a comparable reputation. It
is there that Anatoly records the finishing lines of Shalamov’s last,
posthumous publication in Dmitry Rudakov’s Sententia, which screens as
part of the online Russian Film Week USA.
Back
in the days of the USSR, a visitor in the night was always bad news. In this
case it is Vsevold (some sort of ambiguous KGB figure), dropping off Shalamov, whom
he treats like a pack animal. It is a long scene that almost plays like an absurdist
Beckett drama, except it carries very specific and significant meaning. Eventually,
Anatoly and his young protégé arrive to record Shalamov’s final, dying verses,
after collecting the fragments of his last manuscript hidden with friends and
family.
Aesthetically
(but not ideologically), Sententia (which takes its title from the
mantra Shalamov created while at risk of succumbing to fatal sleep during
sub-zero Siberian temperatures) shares a kinship with classic avant-garde
Soviet cinema. The pace is slow, but the tension is high. Alexey Filippov’s
harsh black-and-white cinematography and the unsettling white-noise-ish soundscape
further evoke a Lynchian vibe. However, the sense of dread is very concrete and
unmistakably rooted in power dynamics of the Soviet system.
Aleksandr Ryanzantsev does not say much as Shalamov,
but it is an incredibly brave and physical performance. His emaciated, battered
body is exposed for viewers to see—and it is indeed a disturbing sight to
behold. Yet, he also projects astonishing dignity in the midst of his degradation.
Rock & roll just works better with an outsider attitude. Take two very
different films about the short-lived Soviet rocker, Viktor Tsoi (or Tsoy
depending on the film). Kirill Serebrennikov, who was arrested on trumped on
charges and confined to house arrest for several months after criticizing the “annexation”
of the Crimea, helmed the gritty and powerful Leto, which definitely
reflects the uncompromising spirit of Tsoi’s music. On the other hand, Tsoi
hardly appears in the new film directed by Alexei Ushitel, officially proclaimed
a “People’s Artist of Russia” in 2002. Instead, it focuses (with little sympathy)
on those he left behind, as they accompany his coffin on a final round trip
from Latvia to St. Petersburg in Uchitel’s Tsoy, the opening film of
this year’s online Russian Film Week USA.
Tragically,
bus driver Pavel Shelest collided with “Tsoy,” but Uchitel makes it clear it
was the distracted singer’s fault. Nevertheless, Shelest has a record, so the
media and the Russian authorities are determined to scapegoat him. However, his
lover happens to be the Latvian cop investigating the incident (which seems like
a minor conflict of interest). Ironically, Shelest is stuck driving the bus
chartered to convey Tsoi and his entourage back to St. Petersburg. Awkwardly,
the passengers include his widow, her current boyfriend, the lover Tsoi had been
living with, and his mercenary producer. There is also a mysterious
photographer, who might know more about events leading up to the accident than
she lets on.
Tsoi
only appears briefly in archival concert and documentary footage, which is
problematic, considering the film is titled Tsoy. Arguably, it makes him
look rather reckless and it portrays his widow as an emotionally distant ice queen.
Only Tsoi’s young son, who inevitably befriends Shelest, shows any signs of
human warmth.
