Nostalghia (12A.)
Directed by Andrei Tarkovsky. (1983.)
Starring Oleg Yankovskiy, Erland Josephson and Domiziana Giordano. 125 mins
If, like myself, you have Irish heritage, you'll know that whenever ex-pats get together all they want to do is talk about Ireland. After finishing Stalker, the director Andrei Tarkovsky, but not his family, was allowed to leave the Soviet Union to explore the idea of making a film set in Italy. And what did he want to do in this exciting new location? Make a film about missing Russia and the wrench of being estranged from the homeland. And he hadn't even left yet. The terrible thing about the resulting thing is that it validates all his fears and misery about leaving – it is a travesty of his Russian films, and is so mostly because he had become entirely infected by western decadence and self indulgence.
The constant diktats and censorship of his Mosfilm bosses may have frustrated and maddened him, but they didn't stop him turning out five films that can make claim to be masterpieces. In Italy he got to do what all the Italian auteurs got to do – make films about themselves. The Tarkovsky figure is a visiting Russian poet (Yankovskiy) who is staying in a plush hotel in a spa village in Tuscany to research a book on Pavel Sosnovsky, an 18th century Russian musician who lived there but returned home and committed suicide. As is the way with these kind of films, the protagonist lulls around wondering what to do next while the director tries to come up with visual interesting images to illustrate his dilemma. It harks back to Fellini's 8½ and forward to Sorrentino's Youth – different films with different tones yet basically the same. It's all moping about in luxurious spas – an ostentatious existential crisis
Yankovskiy, with bird poo splash of white hair, makes for quite a good director's alter ego but Giordano doesn't get very far as the young woman who is fascinated but frustrated by him – Western auteurs always have a young woman who is fascinated but frustrated by them, it's one of the perks of being in the west. Desperately she lobs a boob in his direction, but that doesn't stir him. Swedish actor Josephson gets cast as the holy fool, a man released from an asylum who kept his family locked away for seven years and believes that the end is near. The poet is much more responsive to them.
Of course it is still beautiful to look at, but now most of it is just pretty pictures. There's no vibrancy, no mystery to most of these images. Only in the last half hour does he conjure up some scenes that match up to his previous films.
It is a little shocking seeing how quickly and how far Tarkovsky went off the rails when he came to the west. I have some nostalgia of my own invested in this film as I suspect it is the first Tarkovsky film I ever saw, during a late night screening on Channel 4 on a Thursday night in the eighties. This was a time when they were boldly exploring the idea of broadcasting beyond midnight and showing difficult foreign language art films as still part of the broadcasting public service remit. (Now, there's nostalgia for you.) There are images from that screening that have stuck with me ever since, that were quite precious to me. (You never forget the first time you see it rain in a Tarkovsky film.) So to revisit it now and find it lacking is something of a kick in the teeth.
I don't want to apportion blame but if we were I might be tempted to point the finger at scriptwriter, Tonini Guerra. Guerra had his hand in almost everybody's pies, regularly collaborating with Antonioni, Fellini, the Taviani brothers and Greek maestro Angelopoulos. He co-wrote many films that I love, including The Night Of The Shooting Stars, and his list of credits is probably the most prestigious and acclaimed of any person who has worked in film, but I don't trust him. I think he led directors astray, tempted them into indulgence. No real evidence for this, just a belief. But this is Tarkovsky where blind faith is always a good thing.
Directed by Andrei Tarkovsky. (1983.)
Starring Oleg Yankovskiy, Erland Josephson and Domiziana Giordano. 125 mins
If, like myself, you have Irish heritage, you'll know that whenever ex-pats get together all they want to do is talk about Ireland. After finishing Stalker, the director Andrei Tarkovsky, but not his family, was allowed to leave the Soviet Union to explore the idea of making a film set in Italy. And what did he want to do in this exciting new location? Make a film about missing Russia and the wrench of being estranged from the homeland. And he hadn't even left yet. The terrible thing about the resulting thing is that it validates all his fears and misery about leaving – it is a travesty of his Russian films, and is so mostly because he had become entirely infected by western decadence and self indulgence.
The constant diktats and censorship of his Mosfilm bosses may have frustrated and maddened him, but they didn't stop him turning out five films that can make claim to be masterpieces. In Italy he got to do what all the Italian auteurs got to do – make films about themselves. The Tarkovsky figure is a visiting Russian poet (Yankovskiy) who is staying in a plush hotel in a spa village in Tuscany to research a book on Pavel Sosnovsky, an 18th century Russian musician who lived there but returned home and committed suicide. As is the way with these kind of films, the protagonist lulls around wondering what to do next while the director tries to come up with visual interesting images to illustrate his dilemma. It harks back to Fellini's 8½ and forward to Sorrentino's Youth – different films with different tones yet basically the same. It's all moping about in luxurious spas – an ostentatious existential crisis
Yankovskiy, with bird poo splash of white hair, makes for quite a good director's alter ego but Giordano doesn't get very far as the young woman who is fascinated but frustrated by him – Western auteurs always have a young woman who is fascinated but frustrated by them, it's one of the perks of being in the west. Desperately she lobs a boob in his direction, but that doesn't stir him. Swedish actor Josephson gets cast as the holy fool, a man released from an asylum who kept his family locked away for seven years and believes that the end is near. The poet is much more responsive to them.
Of course it is still beautiful to look at, but now most of it is just pretty pictures. There's no vibrancy, no mystery to most of these images. Only in the last half hour does he conjure up some scenes that match up to his previous films.
It is a little shocking seeing how quickly and how far Tarkovsky went off the rails when he came to the west. I have some nostalgia of my own invested in this film as I suspect it is the first Tarkovsky film I ever saw, during a late night screening on Channel 4 on a Thursday night in the eighties. This was a time when they were boldly exploring the idea of broadcasting beyond midnight and showing difficult foreign language art films as still part of the broadcasting public service remit. (Now, there's nostalgia for you.) There are images from that screening that have stuck with me ever since, that were quite precious to me. (You never forget the first time you see it rain in a Tarkovsky film.) So to revisit it now and find it lacking is something of a kick in the teeth.
I don't want to apportion blame but if we were I might be tempted to point the finger at scriptwriter, Tonini Guerra. Guerra had his hand in almost everybody's pies, regularly collaborating with Antonioni, Fellini, the Taviani brothers and Greek maestro Angelopoulos. He co-wrote many films that I love, including The Night Of The Shooting Stars, and his list of credits is probably the most prestigious and acclaimed of any person who has worked in film, but I don't trust him. I think he led directors astray, tempted them into indulgence. No real evidence for this, just a belief. But this is Tarkovsky where blind faith is always a good thing.
