Studies in European Cinema Volume 1 Number 1. Intellect Ltd 2004.

Article. English language. doi: 10.1386/seci.1.1.57/0

Alexander Sokurov and the Russian soul
David Gillespie and Elena Smirnova
Abstract
This article discusses Sokurovs recently acclaimed film Russian Ark/Russki
kovcheg. While giving full due to the films technical innovation (the single,
uninterrupted 90-minute take), the authors examine the relationship of the
films style to its content, and the films exploration of the Russian soul through
the dialogue of the Russian narrator and the French protagonist. The themes of
art and history as developed in the film are the main focus of scrutiny.
Contributor details
David Gillespie has recently been appointed Professor in Russian at the University
of Bath, where he has taught since 1985. He has published critical studies of the
writers Valentin Rasputin, Iurii Trifonov and Fedor Abramov, and his book Russian
Cinema was published by Longman in 2002.
Elena Smirnova is a doctoral student at the University of Bath specializing in the
depiction of masculinities in post-Soviet Russian culture. She is from Taganrog in
southern Russia, where she has worked as a translator and interpreter in local
businesses.
Department of European Studies and Modern Languages, University of Bath, Bath
BA2 7AY, UK.
E-mail: mlsdcg@bath.ac.uk (Professor David Gillespie)
57 SEC 1 (1) 5765 Intellect Ltd 2004
Keywords
Sokurov
Russian Ark
Russian history
Russian art
Hermitage
St Petersburg
SEC 1/1 Layout 5/25/04 1:17 PM Page 57
Article text
On its release in early 2003, Alexander Sokurovs Russian Ark/Russkii
kovcheg was acclaimed as extraordinary and dazzling, something
weirdly moving and certainly unique in the first British reviews.
1
In one
of the earliest responses after the film was shown at the 2002 Cannes Film
Festival, Geoffrey McNab remarked that the film - which has already given
Russian cinema a huge fillip - is unique, although he was troubled by its
concern with nostalgia and loss (McNab 2002: 20-22). The enthusiasm
of critics was due to the films great technical innovation: the continuous,
90-minute single take, as performed by the German cameraman Tilman
Bttner. The entire film was shot in less than two hours in a single day, 23
December 2001.
Other masters of the cinema such as Hitchcock and Scorsese had used
long takes in Rope (1948) and Goodfellas (1990) respectively, and Andrei
Tarkovskii played around with the aesthetic potential of uninterrupted
shots and fluid camera movement, especially in the eight-minute sequence
that brings Nostalgia/Nostalgiia (1983) to an end. Sokurov has taken the
technique to its logical conclusion, a one-shot film that subverts the cine-
matic domination of sharp editing, rapid montage and jump-cutting,
instead relying on the latest digital technology to create single breath
cinema, as Sokurov himself has defined it. The director proffers a direct
challenge to the established grammar of film, rejecting editorial effects and
shocks, instead promoting depth of shot, breadth of perception and fluidity
of movement - not to mention meticulous preparation, and the enormous
risk in hoping that nothing goes wrong on the day of the shoot. Russian
Ark also demands of the audience a different intellectual response than
would otherwise be expected of a film that is devised in episodes, cut up
and presented in neatly edited and divided sections. We are not being
simply entertained, we are being presented with a treatise on the relation-
ship of art and history in Russia through the ages.
Whereas critics have been enraptured by Russian Arks technical and
stylistic flamboyance, relatively little has been said about the films subject
matter and major theme: Russian history and Russias relationship to
Europe. Undoubtedly, the visual style of the film contributes to its
message, but Sokurov engages in a nationalist discourse that, paradoxi-
cally, can be seen as both Russo-centric and pro-European at the same
time.
Russian Ark opens with a disembodied voice (Sokurov himself) recalling
a terrible accident. This narrator then becomes the eye of the camera
and simultaneously the eye of the viewer, as it enters the Hermitage
Museum in the company of aristocrats and army officers in their pre-revo-
lutionary finery. The twin themes of blindness and seeing become signifi-
cant, as the narrator begins the film by saying that he cannot see
anything after his accident. Inside the Hermitage he becomes unblinded,
seeing both history and art unfold before him.
2
1 See the reviews by
Julian Graffy
(2003: 53), Peter
Bradshaw (2003),
and Philip French
(2003).
2 This theme is
developed further by
Dragan Kujundzic in
his article (2003).
58 David Gillespie and Elena Smirnova
SEC 1/1 Layout 5/25/04 1:17 PM Page 58
The juxtaposition of Russia and the West is there in the opening
scenes: the people, music, costumes and language are all Russian, but the
architecture of the Hermitage and its pictures are European. The camera
soon comes across a black-clad Frenchman, who we later learn is the
Marquis de Custine, and the two then proceed through various rooms of
the museum, admiring the paintings (among them great works by Van
Dyck, El Greco, Rembrandt and Rubens) and discussing the vagaries of
Russian history. Their dialogue allegorizes the centuries-old relationship of
Russia and Europe, but it also symbolizes Russias own dialogue with itself
since Peter the Great had founded his window on Europe in 1703 and so
forced Russians to look west for their future and not east, as in previous
centuries. The film provides a window on to the Russian soul, where the
struggle of Western, Eastern and Slavonic influences for dominance is
played out.
Sokurovs disembodied voice engages the Western-clad other on the
influence of Europe on Russia, and Russias place in Europe.
3
The film
becomes a symbol of the continuing, uninterrupted, unedited movement
of Russian history since its political emergence in Europe under Peter the
Great. Kujundzic remarks: The one-take film (which is only technically
possible with video) fashions itself after history in that there can be no
montage, no cut and paste, no changes, additions, subtractions, do-overs
(Kujundzic 2003: 7). History, in other words, is not important as an
achievement, but in its making.
Alexander Sokurov was born in 1951 in Podorvikha, a village in the
Irkutsk region of western Siberia. His father was a war veteran and profes-
sional soldier, and much of his childhood was spent travelling the length
and breadth of the Warsaw Pact countries as his father moved from one
posting to another. For instance, he began his schooling in Poland, and
ended it in Turkmenia (in 1968). He studied history at university in the
then closed city of Gorkii (now Nizhnii Novgorod), working part-time in
the local television studio as a directors assistant. At the age of 19 he was
already directing television programmes, and continued to do so for
another six years.
He graduated in 1974, and a year later entered the All-Union State
Cinematography Institute in Moscow (VGIK), where he was awarded the
Eisenstein scholarship for outstanding work. However, in 1979 he was
forced to cut short his studies and leave the Institute because of political
differences with the administration. His first film, The Lonely Voice of a
Man/Odinokii golos cheloveka (1978-87), based on a story by Andrei
Platonov, was not accepted as his graduation work, though it later won
prizes at international film festivals. It was at this time that Sokurov
became acquainted with Andrei Tarkovskii, and their friendship remained
constant even when Tarkovskii was forced out of the country in 1983.
It was on Tarkovskiis recommendation that Sokurov was employed by
the Lenfilm studios in Leningrad, and where he made his first films. Still,
until Gorbachevs policy of glasnost in the arts beginning in 1986 not one
3 Talking of the role of
Bttner, Sokoruv
remarked that this is
a European film with
all its peculiarities - it
is a Russian European
film (Sokurov
2002: 12).
59 Alexander Sokurov and the Russian soul
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of his films (mainly documentaries) was allowed on to the screen. In the
late 1980s, Sokurovs films began to be shown both at home and abroad,
and he began collecting plaudits and awards. With the release of Mother
and Son/Mat i syn in 1997, Sokurov established a reputation as one of the
most innovative and intellectually challenging film-makers of his time, a
reputation cemented with the release in 1999 of Moloch/Molokh, about the
relationship of Eva Braun and Adolf Hitler, and in 2000 of Taurus/Telets,
focusing on Lenins last days. But it was the release of Russian Ark that
brought him broad international acclaim.
The film takes us through over 200 years of history, although the
extra-diegetic awareness of time and history is greater. It is no accident
that the film was released in 2003, the tricentenary of the founding of St
Petersburg, home of the Hermitage. The first historical personage we see is
Peter the Great berating a bearded general, then Catherine the Great
urgently looking for a toilet. It was Peter who dragged Russia into the
modern age by adopting Western forms of government, and Catherine
expanded the Russian empire during her reign. Persian ambassadors come
to express their regret at the ransacking of the Russian embassy in 1829
in which the playwright Alexander Griboedov was killed, thus suggesting
the Eastern question provoked by Catherines expansion and which lives
on in the modern age in the form of the Chechen wars: how can Russia
relate to its eastern, non-Christian neighbours? We will later see Catherine
in another guise, older and more stately. Towards the end of the film,
Nicholas II and his family, to be murdered a few years later, sit down to
dinner. We also see Pushkin and his beautiful wife Natalia Goncharova
passing by, although so quickly that we barely notice them.
The camera sweeps along, not allowing the viewer time to focus or
dwell long on paintings or characters. The flow of history is presented as a
continuum, where people from the present day accost the Frenchman, and
he, in turn, engages others in conversation, such as various directors of
the museum Boris Piotrovskii and his son Mikhail (the director when the
film was made in 2001) and Iosif Orbeli. The ballerina Alla Osipenko,
modern-day sailors, a blind woman who sees art with the touch of her
fingers, an actor and a doctor all contribute to the Frenchmans dialogue
with the museum. The Mariinskii Theatre Orchestra plays the mazurka
from Glinkas opera A Life for the Tsar, with its world-famous conductor,
Valerii Gergiev, himself conducting. These are all inhabitants of St
Petersburg, part of its past and present, its daily life, its art and its culture.
Throughout the first part of the film, de Custine and the unseen narra-
tor discuss art and history, the European denigrating all things Russian
and asserting that only European art and music have any real worth.
After two or three such exchanges, the viewer realizes that the director
has his tongue firmly in his cheek, cocking a gentle snoot at European pre-
sumptions of cultural superiority. The narrator himself refuses to argue
further, contenting himself with wry remarks at the Marquiss expense. In
other words, the Russian soul itself is a dichotomy, forced after Peter the
60 David Gillespie and Elena Smirnova
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Great to confront the West, and uncertain of how to deal with the East.
The great paintings we see are all European, and all Russians would know
that the Hermitage houses only European art (if tourists want Russian art,
they go to the Russian Museum a few hundred yards away). Still, the
music is Russian, although the Marquis thinks that it is so good that
Glinka must be a German.
The Frenchman obviously knows his history, for he recalls the fire that
destroyed much of the museum in 1837, and its restoration under Vasilii
Stasov in 1840. He also shows more than a nodding acquaintance with
the Empire style of decoration particularly popular in the early nineteenth
century, and Svres porcelain. The debate on art and history strikes at the
very heart of this film, for it is not only that favourite Russian chestnut -
Russias relationship with the West - that is at issue. Russian Ark offers an
affirmation of Russian nationhood, with its emphasis on the pageantry
and grandeur of the Tsarist past, no more elegantly realized than in the
scene in the Nikolai Hall, with 600 extras and a swirling, breathtaking
mazurka that is the films culminating scene.
In fact, the ending of the film offers clues as to the extra-diegetic con-
tinuation of its themes. The closing minutes make clear that this is a
doomed world. The camera watches Nicholas II and his family sit down to
dinner, then we immediately switch to the Tsars four daughters outside
the room addressed as angels: their days are numbered. We enter the
Nikolai Hall for the mazurka that is the films great set piece, where
couples glide past, men dressed in army uniform or evening dress, the
women in ball gowns or, seemingly incongruously, seventeenth-century
costume and head-dress. The Frenchman dances briefly with Pushkins
wife, and the Russian viewer would not need reminding that Pushkin was
killed in a duel in 1837 provoked by the alleged affair of his wife and a
French officer, Baron Georges dAnths. Pushkin is not there, but we will
see him in a few minutes, looking anxiously for her on the staircase.
There is nothing in this scene to suggest that this is a ball held in
1913, the eve of the destruction of the monarchy and imperial Russia, as
Kuzundjiz (2003: 4) and Graffy (2003: 53) both intimate: Pushkins wife
could not historically have been there. Indeed, there were no court balls
held in 1913. However, in 1903 there was a ball held to commemorate
the 200th anniversary of St Petersburg, where guests wore seventeenth-
century costumes. To the viewer unaware of this, Sokurovs ball remains
an undated, yet timeless event that brings the film to a close by drawing a
veil over the past and confronting the future. The narrator leaves de
Custine (Farewell, Europe) and the crowds, to look down on the sea and
wonder, without his European other, just what lies in store. Where does
the Russian soul go from here?
The catastrophe alluded to in the films opening moments is, of
course, the Revolution, and the years of Soviet power are characterized as
an 80-year-long Convention, so named after the bloodiest period of the
French Revolution (which itself lasted only three years). The Soviet past is
61 Alexander Sokurov and the Russian soul
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alluded to almost elliptically, as a troop of revolutionary Bolshevik soldiers
quickly march past. This is a clear rebuttal to the false heroism in classical
Soviet films, such as Eisensteins October/Oktiabr (1927) or Mikhail
Romms Lenin in October/Lenin v Oktiabre (1937), where Bolshevik soldiers
occupy the Winter Palace, room by room, corridor by corridor. The 900-
day siege of Leningrad, when over one million Leningraders died between
November 1941 and January 1944, is evoked when the Frenchman acci-
dentally comes across a room filled with coffins, where a carpenter is
preparing more of them (including, he tells us, his own).
With its engagement with Russias past, Russian Ark enjoys a troubled if
unmistakeable relationship with some other recent films. Nikita
Mikhalkov represents the exact opposite of Sokurovs view of cinema, with
his playing to the gallery and desire for commercial success. However, his
grand folly The Barber of Siberia/Sibirskii tsiriulnik (1999), and its celebra-
tion of the physical expanse of Russia and the generosity of the Russian
soul, offers a similarly selective view of pre-1917 Russian history. Gleb
Panfilovs panegyric The Romanovs, Crown-Bearing Family/Romanovy,
ventsenosnaia semia (2000), which culminates in footage of the canoniza-
tion of the last Tsar and his family in the newly-restored Church of Christ
the Saviour in Moscow in the summer of 2000, is also dewy-eyed in its
lament for the loss of royal status and imperial splendour. We could also
mention here Stanislav Govorukhins documentary The Russia We Have
Lost/Rossiia, kotoruiu my poteriali (1992), an unabashed apologia for the
imperial past, but with no mention of the social deprivation or political
strife of those years. One of the major reasons for the fall of the Romanov
dynasty was the courts loss of authority because of the corrupting influ-
ence of Grigorii Rasputin, especially over the Tsarina Alexandra, yet he
gets no mention at all in the films by Govorukhin or Panfilov. Sokurovs
film can thus be seen within a context of neo-nationalist cinematic narra-
tives, where mythology is created and asserted in the face of well-known
but uncomfortable historical realities.
But it is also more than that. The film visualizes the Russian soul in
dialogue with itself, discussing its identity and its future. It is not, there-
fore, the Hermitage Museum that is the Russian ark, but the Russian soul
itself, moving in its uninterrupted one take to an unknown future, an
uncertain identity. The films last words, spoken by the narrator, are it is
for us to sail on forever and to live forever. That is, the Russian soul, both
embracing and simultaneously rejecting Europe, is destined to seek its own
course and its own harmony.
Unlike Sokurovs recent films there is a foregrounded musical sound-
track featuring works by the classical composers Glinka and Musorgskii,
culminating in the powerful finale with the Marinskii Theatre Orchestra.
In recent films such as Japanese Stories/Iaponskie istorii (1999) or Taurus
(2000) Sokurov concentrates the viewers attention on the screen, provid-
ing little in the way of musical digression. What is important is what we
see, and in these other films the visual image is deliberately filtered and
62 David Gillespie and Elena Smirnova
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stylized so that the viewer feels distanced from the narrative. Russian Ark
celebrates classical Russian music just as much as it does the European art
holdings of the Hermitage Museum. They form a single identity, they
belong to the same soul.
This is not to say that Sokurovs film is too earnest for its own good.
Certainly, in comparison with Sokurovs other recent films there is more
than enough humour. Moloch focuses on the relationship of Adolf Hitler
and Eva Braun, with supporting appearances by Martin Bormann and
Joseph Goebbels, but it is essentially a film about two people, as if reclaim-
ing them as human beings from the obloquy of history. Similarly, Taurus
shows us a debilitated Vladimir Lenin in his last days, a stroke victim
unable to move, eat or wash himself without the help of others, and forced
to witness the unrelenting degradation of his own body. Lenins body a
useless shell, the watchful and all-controlling Iosif Stalin assumes the
mantle of power.
4
Lenin is a weak and vulnerable human being; a sick,
frail man whose last delight is to hear birds sing, a last reminder of the
freshness and beauty of the natural world as his life ebbs away. As with
Sokurovs picture of Hitler, the viewer is asked not to judge the man on his
politics or historical significance, but to see him as a simple human being.
Russian Ark sets out not to debunk or to reframe our perceptions of his-
torical individuals, but to celebrate the Russian soul as being a repository
simultaneously of both European art and Russian music. The film is
unusual in Sokurovs recent works in that there are many flashes of subtle
humour, mainly concentrating on the relationship of Russia and Europe.
The Frenchmans prejudice against all things Russian becomes increas-
ingly risible as the film goes on. He is confronted at several points by men
who want to close the museum to him and throw him out, a clever swipe
at the reluctance of Russians to open out to the West (not least in Soviet
times). Surreal moments of near-farce occur as the Frenchman is pursued
throughout by a spy (played by Leonid Mozgovoi, who played both Hitler
and Lenin in Moloch and Taurus), intent, like the prying and secretive
Soviet state, on discovering the foreigners true intentions. The humour
here is not only directed at the Frenchmans arrogance and sense of cul-
tural superiority, but also at Russian insularity and fear of the other.
At the end of the film the crowds leave the Hermitage, the Marquis is
lost among them, and the narrator returns to the void from which he
emerged 90 minutes before. Their last exchange consists of extremely
short sentences, summarizing the end of things:
Lets go.
Where to?
Forward.
Whats there?
I dont know.
Farewell, Europe.
That is all.
4 Mikhail Iampolskii
has long noted
Sokurovs fascination
with the physical side
of death. (See
Iampolskii
1994a: 16567;
1994b: 27378).
Sokurovs 1997 film
Mother and Son offered
a compelling,
profoundly touching
picture of the last
minutes of a woman
as she dies cradled in
the arms of her loving
son.
63 Alexander Sokurov and the Russian soul
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Russia faces a different future, the past is dead, new ways lie ahead. As the
crowds disperse, we get a last glimpse of the Hermitage, with its magnifi-
cent interiors, its unique art collections and the imprint of history on its
very walls, a testament to Russias glorious past and its many and deep
cultural ties with Europe. The Old Masters may be magnificent and time-
less, but twentieth-century Russian history remains a tragedy, and
remains largely outside the films focus.
Russian history remains a continuing, unbroken process, where char-
acters from the past and the present intermingle, and history becomes
identified not with so-called significant events or personages, but with the
ever-changing fabric of life, the immutable beauty of art, and the inex-
orable passage of time. Russia and Europe are as one in the Hermitage,
European art perfectly complementing the Russian musical rhythms and
offering a commentary on moments and figures from Russian history. The
Hermitage stands in St Petersburg, itself built as Russias window on to
Europe. Russias true place lies in Europe, and it cannot live outside of
Europe. The film is simultaneously a celebration of the Hermitage as the
home of Russias greatest collection of European art, an affirmation of its
place at the epicentre of recent Russian history, and a direct assertion of
the oneness and integrity of the Russian soul.
5
Sokurovs film can be contextualized within a list of reflections on
Russias history, stretching back, as Orlando Figes makes clear, to the early
nineteenth century and Karamzins history of the Russian state. Here we
get competing mythologies where history, myth and memory were inter-
twined, and discussion of Russias past as a national narrative (Figes
2002: 130).
6
Sokurovs film makes its own highly individual contribution
to this narrative, updating the debate to take in post-Soviet realities. The
soul is the ark, forever moving on, and the tale is in the telling: there is
no end.
Filmography
Mariia, 197888
A Sonata for Hitler/Sonata dlia Gitlera, 197989
The Lonely Voice of a Man/Odinokii golos cheloveka, 197887
Demoted/Razzhalovannyi, 1980
Dmitrii Shostakovich. Sonata for Viola/Dmitrii Shostakovich. Altovaia sonata, 198186
And Nothing More/I nichego bolshe, 198287
Evening Sacrifice/Zhertva vecherniaia, 198487
Patience Work/Terpenie trud, 198587
Elegy/Elegiia, 198587
Mournful Indifference/Skorbnoe beschuvstvie, 198387
Moscow Elegy/Moskovskaia elegiia, 198687
Empire Style/Ampir, 1987
Days of Eclipse/Dni zatmeniia, 1988
Petersburg Elegy/Peterburgskaia elegiia, 1989
5 Dragan Kujundzic fur-
ther comments,
noting that the
seizing of the Winter
Palace, the site of the
Hermitage, was one of
the key visualized
moments of the
October Revolution,
especially in films by
Eisenstein and
Pudovkin: It is
because it is a post-
historic and
post-catastrophic
event that the explicit
aspiration of the
movie to be a
salvation can be at all
meaningful. The
Ermitazh is The
Russian Ark after the
catastrophic flood of
Soviet History.
Kuzundzics avowedly
postmodern interpre-
tation was directly
challenged from a
performatist position
by Raoul Eshelman
(2003).
6 Figes also notes that
after the publication
of Karamzins History
of the Russian State
(181826) Russians
themselves began to
take a vigorous inter-
est in their countrys
past: Historical asso-
ciations were set up,
many in the
provinces, and huge
efforts were suddenly
devoted to the rescu-
ing of Russias past.
History became the
arena for all those
troubling questions
about Russias nature
and its destiny (Figes
2002: 131).
64 David Gillespie and Elena Smirnova
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Soviet Elegy/Sovetskaia elegiia, 1989
Save and Preserve/Spasi i sokhrani, 1989
Towards the Events in Transcaucasia/K sobytiiam v Zakavkaze, 1990
A Simple Elegy/Prostaia elegiia, 1990
The Second Circle/Krug vtoroi, 1990
Leningrad Retrospective (19571980)/Leningradskaia retrospektiva (19571980), 1990
An Example of Intonation/Primer intonatsii, 1991
Stone/Kamen, 1992
Elegy from Russia/Elegiia iz Rossii, 1993
Quiet Pages. Motifs from Nineteenth Century Russian Prose/Tikhie stranitsy. Po motivam
russkoi prozy XIX veka, 1993
Spiritual Voices. From the Diaries of War. A Narration in Five Episodes/Dukkhovnye
golosa. Iz dnevnikov voiny. Povestvovanie v piati chastiakh, 1995
Oriental Elegy/Vostochnaia elegiia, 1996
Mother and Son/Mat i syn, 1997
The Knot/Uzel, 1997
Moloch/Molokh, 1999
Taurus/Telets, 2000
Russian Ark/Russkii kovcheg, 2002
Father and Son/Otets i syn, 2003
Works cited
Bradshaw, P. (2003), Russian Ark, The Guardian, 4 April 2003.
Eshelman, R. (2003), Sokurovs Russian Ark and the End of Postmodernism,
www.artmargins.com/content/cineview.eshelman.html, accessed 2 October 2003.
Figes, O. (2002), Natashas Dance: A Cultural History of Russia, London and New York:
Allen Lane.
French, P. (2003), Take a chance on a long shot, The Observer, 6 April 2003.
Graffy, J. (2003), Russian Ark, Sight and Sound, 13: 4, p. 53.
Iampolskii, M. (1994a), Istina tela, in Liubov Arkus (ed.), Sokurov, St Petersburg:
SEANS-Press Ltd, pp. 16567.
- (1994b), Smert v kino, in Liubov Arkus (ed.), Sokurov, St Petersburg:
SEANS-Press Ltd, pp. 27378.
Kuzundjiz, D. (2003), After After: The Arkive Fever of Alexander Sokurov,
www.artmargins.com/content/cineview/kuzundzic.html, accessed 2 October 2003.
McNab, G. (2002), Palace in Wonderland, Sight and Sound, 12: 8, pp. 2022.
Sokurov, A. (2002), Ostanetsia tolko kultura, Iskusstvo kino, 7, pp. 514.
To cite this article:
Gillespie, D. and Smirnova, E. (2004), Alexander Sokurov and the Russian soul,
Studies in European Cinema 1: 1, pp. 5765, doi: 10.1386/seci.1.1.57/0
65 Alexander Sokurov and the Russian soul
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