Revolutionary Nostalgia

MOST GOOD FILMS provide several different views from which to form a thematic interpretation. Yet even in the best of films, the director and screenwriter guide the audience as to how the action, and ultimately the theme, should be understood. In A Slave of Love, the new Russian import directed by Nikita Mikhalov, it is not difficult to be aware of how the director meant the central message to be read. A Russian film, enjoying enormous popularity in its native country, the hero Victor (Rodion Nakhapetov) and heroine Olga (Elena Solovey) romanticize the Russian Revolution. However, American viewers may not see the film as a glorification of the Revolution. At times the Russian and the more removed American visions synthesize, making A Slave of Love a beautiful and disconcerting commentary on an era of violent change.

The year is 1917. Tucked in the corner of the Crimea, voluntarily oblivious to the Revolution, a film troupe makes a silly melodrama called A Slave of Love. The star is Russian film idol Olga, whose huge halfmoon eyes almost make her look like a Russian icon, except Olga's eyes possess a glimmer of restless life. And she is very restless, longing to escape the triviality of her life. The film opens with Olga pacing the set, wringing her hands in impatience. "When will they come!" she moans, although it is never made clear who she is waiting for.

As it turns out, she is waiting for a cause to make her life worth while. It comes through Victor Potosky, a Bolshevik cameraman who covers his "subversive" activities by filming melodramas such as A Slave of Love. In Victor, Olga sees bravery, honesty, but above all dedication to a cause that makes him one of the living. At one point, she tells Victor that she believes she is dead, but the first time he attempts to explain the Revolution's meaning to Olga, she reacts as friviously as the simple characters she plays in her films. Later, however, Victor allows Olga to see the footage of White. Army atrocities he has secretly filmed. Faced with this visual evidence, Olga cannot possibly escape the reality that Victor describes.

The next day, Olga boards the train for Moscow. The producer of the film-within-the-film, Yuzhakov (Oleg Basilashivili), begs her not to leave, using childish reasoning that cannot alter the plans of the transformed Olga. But Yuzhakov finally devises a ploy to secure completion of his film. Using her children as bait, he forces Olga to follow him off the train and remain in the Crimea. Regretfully she kneels for a moment to call after Yuzhakov in a pathetic whisper, "You have ruined me, you have ruined me."

At this point, Olga's acceptance of the Revolution as her cause begins to demand examination. Although she provides an alibi to answer the accusation that love for Victor is her true motivating force saying, "I have lived so many lives on screen that no man can take me in," her true motives remain uncertain. To complicate matters further, she confesses her love for Victor later. Two interpretations are possible: Victor may, in fact, represent the Revolution itself. Then again, her teary-eyed admittance may show how her love has unwittingly cast her in a responsible role she never truly wanted. One cannot help but end up with several unsettling ideas about what motivates revolutionaries, each one provocative.

Olga is not the only character whose ambiguous reaction to change is poignantly portrayed. The central issue of who is living, of who accepts the dramatic change from old to new forced by the Bolshevik Revolution, confronts all the characters. Obviously, Victor is an example of one who accepts the present, and wants to shape the future. "Blessed is he who visits the world in its most fateful moments," he prophesizes shortly before his death. His antithesis is Fedotov, the White Army intelligence officer who, in his efforts to stop those who accept revolutionary ideas, kills Victor.

BETWEEN THE TWO of them lies Kalygin (Alexander Kalygin), the director of the film within the film. Although he is fully aware of the Revolution, he is paralyzed by a feeling more sympathetic than cowardice--a sense of his own futility. "We are like children left in the nursery while the house is on fire," he explains. While the house burns, the children are trapped, unable to escape. "Let's just keep our eyes closed and pray," he tells Yuzhakov.

But his disarming self-awareness denies Kalygin our anger. He openly envies Olga as she boards the train for Moscow; he piously mourns Potosky's death. Ironically, Yuzhakov confronts Kalygin with words that touch the issue of "who is alive?" There is silence, and the unanswered question echoes until the end of the film.

"Snow and grass together" is the way Yuzhakov describes Central Russia as he and Kalygin sadly reminisce about less confusing times. A Slave of Love is like snow and grass together: it has brilliant flashes of humor embedded in the serious course of the story. The famous silent film actor speaking in a hilarious soprano, Kalygin's poignant, short-lived efforts to lose weight, and the confused, moppet-like screenwriter provide comic relief. The diconcerting questions about revolution, about human nature in the midst of historical upheaval and about the quality of human existence which are raised by the film and its startling moments of humor are reason enough to see A Slave of Love--more than once.

IT IS ALSO GRACED by superb performances by each actor and actress, and imaginative, eerie photography. Elena Solovey, as Olga, has a rare ability to convincingly portray a woman undergoing tormented change. But the charm and love that make her a believable film idol emerge, as well. Victor is as mysterious and compelling as the future he represents. Though he speaks very little, his controlled silence brings a sense of his intensity to the film. In an unforgettable scene, he watches over Olga's shoulder as Fedotov's men surround the square in which he an Olga are having tea. Immediately aware that he will soom be ambushed, Victor's facial expressions convey the mixture of pain and resignation he feels as he prepares to die.

A Slave of Love looks as though it was filmed through a haze, casting a misty, nostalgic mood over the film. The muted colors and softened edges smooth out any harsh judgements we might make on these characters. No matter how lightly they face the Revolution, or how trivial they seem, the beautiful photography turns them into sympathetic characters caught in a tragic movement beyond their control.