Kin-Dza-Dza (1986)

Guest blogger Brianosaurus strikes again!

There’s nothing worse than being out of the loop on something you love. In my case, I love sci-fi. L O V E it. So recently I was a little distressed when I checked out IMDb's list of top 50 sci-fi movies and noticed that not only were there a few I had not seen, but more than a few I had not even heard of! (Note: see the bottom of the list to learn how IMDb calculates its ratings.) I had no choice: I had to start watching some movies.

Nestled at #34 on the list (between Night of the Living Dead and Solaris) sits Kin-Dza-Dza!, a fabulously funny bit of dystopian Russian social parody. The reader must take note that I’ve always had a soft spot for Russia. But Russian cinema (and literature) is often as bleak as a Siberian work camp. Kin-dza-dza!, directed by Georgi Daneliya, is refreshing in both its originality and clever humor.

Lots of sci-fi gets caught up in trying to explain itself. Kin-dza-dza! gets started so brilliantly that no explanation as to the who-what-when-where is required. Trust me, you’ll be hooked in the first 5 minutes like I was! All the viewer needs to know is that Vladimir (Stanislav Lyubshin, a Russian Roger Moore) and Gedevan (Levan Gabriadze) have wound up unwillingly on the planet Pluke (in the Kin-dza-dza galaxy).


Gedevan and Vladimir meeting the locals.

The story follows Vladimir and Gedevan as they try and make their way back to Earth. In order to do so they must navigate a bizarre and barren world which they know nothing about. On Pluke there is a seemingly nonsensical system of social hierarchy that, like many things in the film, isn’t explained because it simply cannot be. This is one of the reasons the movie works and I liked it so much. Just think about how much senseless racism and other social norms exist in our culture that can’t be explained. Unfortunately our travelers are on the low end of the totem pole and must, amongst other things, give homage to superiors in an amazing ritualistic display! (Unless said superior is wearing yellow pants, then they must do it twice!) Below is Wef and Bi (Evgeni Leonov and Yuriy Yakovlev, Russian Danny DeVito and John Cleese respectively) performing said display!


"Koo! Koo! Koo!"

Our protagonists wander the deserts of Pluke with the innocent misdirection of unprepared tourists. This allows the viewer to follow along and learn as they do. Not only is there a language barrier (for a concise Plukanian dictionary go here), but the entire planet is on a different system for EVERYTHING! For example, matches appear to be the most valuable item, and if you don’t wear your tsak (nose bell) you’ll get in trouble with an ecilop (police officer). Basically imagine you got dropped in the middle of Mos Eisley without Obi-Wan to cut off dudes' hands when things didn’t go right.


"...is a society without purpose."


Kin-dza-dza is a great movie. It’s simple and fun and pokes fun at (and makes us consider) our own society. I highly recommend it.

Note: This film is not currently available outside of Russia (where it was a hit). In order to watch it, you might be able to click here and here for a fan-subbed version of the film.

Burnt by the Sun (1994)

It's easy to be charmed by the lazy, summery feel of Burnt by the Sun. And then it's easy to be horrified by the darker undercurrents which run beneath that charm. A film which tackles (some would say, exploits) the ugly Stalinist purges of post-Revolution Russia, it is an emotional wringer. It also won awards and accolates at both Cannes and the Oscars, though it continues to polarize audiences - mostly because of director/writer/star Nikita Milkhakov's controversial celebrity.

Yet in spite of its awards, mistakes and controversy, Burnt by the Sun is often a very beautiful, moving film. It takes place in 1938, where heroic old Colonel Kotov (Nikita Mikhalkov) is vacationing at the family summer home with his young wife, Marusia (Ingeborga Dapkunaite), gorgeous little daughter, Nadya (Nadya Mikhalkov, the director's real-life daughter) and assorted set of what EVERY reviewer is legally bound to call "Chekovian" characters. Just think white linen pants, croquet, sleepy afternoons, buzzing mosquitos and dainty umbrellas. Think also idiosyncracies, mild arguments and a general feel of casual, chaotic affection.


Cho chweet!


Cherry orchards?

Until in walks old family friend Mitya (Oleg Menshikov), a flamboyant prankster and handsome young man who immediately triggers major alarm bells between Kotov and Marusia. With vague allusions and eerie shots of Marusia's scarred wrists, we learn that Mitya was more than a family friend - on the contrary, he once enjoyed Kotov's privileged position as Marusia's great love and beloved scion of the family clan. But after indeterminate misadventures during the revolution and civil war, Mitya lost that position. His return now is both unexpected and mildly threatening; his strained smiles hide an eerie malice and a deep self-loathing. Things take a turn for the worse when we learn that Mitya's arrival is not merely a personal visit.

The emotional impact of the story largely explains its success, we reckon. Witnessing the easy love within the family, coupled with the pitious loathing of Mitya as an "outsider" and forced villain, is - for the most part - very poignant. Nadya also injects a lot of genuine cuteness; she is cheeky and beloved by all, most of all her father, and there are numerous scenes which focus only on that special bond. This may sound indulgent or cheesy, but some moments - such as when Kotov takes his daughter on a boat ride - are wonderfully touching. Nadya circles her small arms around Kotov's neck, burying herself there, and sighs, "You have no idea how wonderful I feel when I'm with you."


The film's most gorgeous scenes.

(Incidentally, another great moment has the family going down to the river for a swim. Mitya sits on a blanket, taking off his shoes and speaking bitterly with his old flame, Marusia. At the same time, he watches as Kotov, standing in the grass, takes off his shoes. A green broken bottle lies just inches from Kotov's bare feet. It's a great moment for building the tension between the two men.)

The human details are the most affecting, and, while Mikhalkov's Kotov is a sort of overly perfect primordial War Hero (and, yes, it's an ego trip), his performance - as well as Nadya Mikhalkov's, Oleg Menshikov's and Ingeborga Dapkunaite's - are generally pitch perfect. People have talked a lot about the unexpected magic(al) realist touches in the film - such as when the titular sun becomes literal, a floating orb that scalds the surroundings - but these are brief missteps in a beautiful waltz.


Self-loathing, loathsome, poor Mitya.


Oh, Mitya.

AS WE TYPE THIS, Nikita Mikhalkov is releasing his long-anticipated (and completely unneeded) sequel, Burnt by the Sun 2, at the currently-running Cannes Film Festival. Burnt by the Sun 2 has already bombed with Russian audiences and critics, and, well, if you've seen Burnt by the Sun, you'll already feel uneasy about a sequel. We've read a few reviews and just the mere plot summary indicates that they've undermined the point (!) of the original. We can't tell you how, but let's just say it'd be about as offensive as Hamlet 2: Claudius Strikes Back. (And the play? WTF?)

Solyaris (1972)

Like the Bach piece that drifts throughout its titular space station, Solyaris is an austere and beautiful film. Long and slow, we never expected such intensity of feeling, and such narrative clarity, in something so quiet and so thinkerly. An adaptation of the similarly thoughtful novel of the same name by Stanislaw Lem, it manages to capture both the philosophical undertones of man's modest place in the universe, as well as portraying with great sensitivity humanity's microcosmic curse of life, death and love. Like a lot of other Russian stuff (Chekhov, Burnt by the Sun, Shostakovich), this film is greatly in tune with the exquisiteness of suffering, the romance and mysterious beauty of being alive.


Notice the noose.


Noose = loving our children? (Incidentally, this cap taken from a hypnotic, extended ride over Tokyo's flyovers and tunnels. Very Futurism with a capital F.)

In a nondescript future, psychologist and Solaristics researcher, Kris Kelvin (Donatas Banionis), is preparing for his departure to the Solaris space station. This station orbits around the mysterious Solaris planet - a planet which has befuddled scientists for generations and riddled Solaristics with a crappy reputation. No one quite understands the planet; neither its enormous, foggy ocean which seems strangely conscious, nor the fact that everyone who visits the space station becomes a near-suicidal hermit. Kelvin's job is to visit the station, meet the remaining three scientists who live there, and assess whether the entire project should be shut down. Before his departure, he is intercepted by a former pilot, Burton (Vladislav Dvorzhetsky), with tales of strange pseudo-hallucinations coming from the planet-wide oceans: plastic gardens, giant babies, the like. Burton begs the skeptical Kelvin to keep the research alive. Kelvin just thinks he's sad and crazy.


Coming in to land.

When Kelvin arrives at the station, he finds it ill-maintained and eerily empty. One of the three remaining scientists, Dr. Gibarian (Sos Sargsyan), has killed himself and left Kelvin a cryptic video begging him to understand that he did it for the best. The other two scientists, Snaut (Jüri Järvet) and Sartorius (Anatoli Solonitsyn), are likewise disheveled, frazzled and evasive. They get very uncomfortable when Kelvin attempts to enter their quarters, and, just as Snaut is reminding Kelvin to remember that there are only three people on the ship now (you hear me? three! three!), something unseen rustles in Snaut's hammock and a child's ear is glimpsed. And whatever you do, Snaut warns Kelvin, keep your head about you!

Properly shaken, it's not long before Kelvin starts seeing his own apparitions - tinkling bells, a girl's leg - until one day everything solidifies into the form of his deceased wife, Hari (Natalya Bondarchuk), sitting bewildered on his couch.


Helping your dead wife out of the dress that she died in? Maybe number 1 on the horrifying scale.

High-quality horror doesn't rely on surprising you or dressing things up in creeping shadows, and, indeed, everything in Solaris is simply and plainly presented. Yet the terrible mystery of these living ghosts, who persistently reappear in the bedroom even after Kelvin shoots Hari into orbit, is truly awful. You spend much of the film like Kelvin: sweating like mad, too terrified to say anything. It is harrying and harrowing, and it's also darkly comic when the three scientists - Kelvin, Snaut, Sartorius - meet up to lament and try to understand their own private hells. Why? How? and WTF? seem to be the major questions. It's clear that the giant planet-ocean is physically manifesting their thoughts, but why? The purpose, while not apparently sinister, is nonetheless frightening just for being so incomprehensible. It is here that the film makes many a powerful comment on the inappropriateness and laughably arrogant ignorance of man's desire to see and understand the cosmos. Understand the cosmos? We can just hear the murky water laughing at you. *bells tinkle*

Unexpectedly (and in a departure from Lem's cerebral novel), a new feeling then creeps into the film, and it becomes an intensely intimate and expressive love story between the guilt-ridden Kelvin and the increasingly self-aware Hari. Tormented astronaut revisited by dead love interest seems a bit hokey and maudlin - if dead wives are going to come back to astronauts, we think the eyeless hellraiser type is much more fun - but it's handled with a beautiful, brooding passion. The credit for this goes as much to director Andrei Tarkovsky as to the actors Donatas Banionis and Natalya Bondarchuk. Banionis seems like the love child between Oliver Reed's intensity and Stellan Skarsgard's slouching sexiness, his look of perpetual torment is perfect for this role - if ever someone looked world-weary on an interstellar scale...! Natalya Bondarchuk likewise has a poignant innocence, and the initially vacant creepiness gives way, after self-awareness, to a sad sort of dignity. Kelvin may be the nominal hero, but Hari is the heroic one.


Kelvin and Hari, OTP.

This was an intelligent, often gut-wrenching film. Give yourself a quiet evening at home to watch it, as the pace is unhurried and its full force is best felt when you're matching its leisurely wavelengths. Subtle, powerful, gorgeous. Highly recommended.

Dnevney dozor (2006)

Just like its prequel, Dnevnoy dozor (Daywatch) is visually engaging but intellectually incoherent. Based on a popular Russian novel, it is an entertaining and schizophrenic romp through urban fantasy. The setting is present-day Moscow - at once decrepit, dystopian, Gothic and romantic - where a large community of Others patrol the night and day shifts. Long ago - both Nightwatch and Daywatch inform us - a great battle between the Light Others and Dark Others took place and an uneasy truce was formed. Light Others owned the day, Dark Others the night - but each opposing side patrolled its enemies for breaches in the truce.


The trailer.

This truce is never really explained, though things like sucking the blood out of old ladies using a juice box are apparently unacceptable. So begins Daywatch, where - after a brief prologue reintroducing us to the cast of characters - our Byronic hero Anton (Konstantin Khabensky), a 3rd-rate half-baked Other, is playing teacher to Svetlana (Mariya Poroshina), a somewhat vacant-eyed blondie who is destined to become a Great One. While riding around in the van, they come upon the previously mentioned vampire with a juice box. After much excitement and incredible visual acrobatics, we see that the vampire is not just any Dark Other but Yegor (Dmitry Martynov), son of Anton, himself. Indeed, while the film attempts many emotional entanglements, this is perhaps the only one which rings genuine: the good but fairly decrepit father who, in a moment of weakness, attempted to kill his infant son (via a dark curse), and the son, having grown, who chose the Dark Side because of this betrayal. The film's only authentically poignant moments are those in which Anton struggles with the consequences of his choice and watches Yegor turn further and further away from him. Also, it has a nice Greek tragedy ring to it.


Mind-blowing, babeeee.

The rest of the film becomes an incomprehensible jumble of sped-up film, lightning flashes, a second father-son melodrama, bizarre but gorgeous close-ups, uneven emotional switches and yet more incredibly inventive special effects. This is perhaps Daywatch's and Nightwatch's main strength: numerous fresh and fun visual fantasy elements. This stuff makes the over-praised slow-motion swinging cameras of The Matrix look like caveman paintings. Check out this stuff: The car that speeds along the side of a building and, stopping, tumbles into the hallway. The man packing his enemy's face in snow and then uses that mask of snow to transfer the other man's face onto his own. Pupils glowing red and leaving trails in the dark. And then a thousand other particulars - usually happening too fast to fully appreciate or notice. Heck, even just the camera angles and focal depth were fun and weird!


Oops, forgot my irises.

The problem then becomes an overload on the senses. When the PPCC saw Nightwatch, we came away thinking that the filmmakers had too many good ideas and a terrible editor. Everything was left in, and the result was a barrage of visual tricks and gimmicks. It was certainly fun, but it was also distracting (ugh, the subtitles were especially tacky), bordering on grotesque. Daywatch seemed somewhat more restrained - or maybe the PPCC just knew what to expect and came prepared this time.

Yet as delicious and overwhelming eye candy as this is, it is so emotionally unbalanced that it's hard for a viewer to latch onto anything within the story. The story is also told at such a frenetic, unrelenting pace that you are left with no time to absorb or, well, comprehend. Rather you can only marvel at the fireworks at arm's length, watching but not really caring when characters are killed or reunited. The plight of Anton, who was introduced to us in Nightwatch as possibly the most wretched anti-hero since Renton in Trainspotting, is engaging enough, but this is due more to Konstantin Khabensky's looks (hey, he cleans up well!) and the time we spend with him than any acting tour de forces or narrative backing. The filmmakers also couldn't decide on which emotional thread to follow, and so, like the imagery, we have an uneven barrage: now ironic 60s Russian lounge ballads, now choral melodrama, now death metal, now a Harry Potter-like theme of wonder. The characters likewise shift in and out of moods without any seeming provocation. Basically, if this plot was a person, it would be manic depressive.


Yeah, he cleans up well. Actually, he dirties up better.

Western viewers might recognize the style of the film as that brand of Buffy the Vampire Slayer- or Underworld-esque goth fantasy. Yes, metal and black leather feature heavily. But this is a film wonderfully embedded in Russan fantasy - the prologue which features the fortress in Samarkand is especially refreshing (if we see one more central European haunted house...). And the portrayal of Moscow - with its sweating dark alleys and streaks of flourescence - was like a natural extension of Blade Runner's Los Angeles: beautiful and terrible. So while fans of Hot Topic might enjoy Daywatch, it is very much beyond the boundaries of standard Hollywood fare. For this reason, and for the visuals alone, the PPCC definitely recommends a viewing. You may not understand what's going on, you may be thrown into a fit by the strobe-like flickering images, but you'll certainly find something to marvel at in all that mush.

Pictures from The Daily Telegraph.