Die Büchse der Pandora/Pandora's Box (1929)

Country: Germany

Released: January 30th, 1929

Genre: Drama

Directed by: G.W. Pabst

Produced by: Seymour Nebenza

Written by:  G. W. Pabst, Ladislaus Vajda

Die Büchse der Pandora is the story of Lulu (Louise Brooks), a young prostitute in Weimar Germany who courts the affections of an upper middle-class newspaper editor named Ludwig Schön (Fritz Kotner). As the title suggests, Lulu attracts danger and chaos wherever she goes, a phenomenon directly alluded to in the film itself. After manipulating Schön to break off his engagement to another woman, infidelity, a botched suicide, and a manslaughter sentence send Lulu, her father (Carl Goetz), and the newspaper editor’s son Alwa (Francis Lederer) on the run from the authorities. What follows is a rapid decent to destitution and depravity, culminating in Lulu’s death at the hands of a Jack the Ripper-esque serial killer.

The film is regrettably scatter-brained, hanging its inconsistent narrative on long-since tread thematic ground: the corrupting nature of greed and lust. It’s a story we’ve seen in films like Greed, Sunrise: A Tale of Two Humans, and that one where that one dude is competing with his son for the affection of his adopted daughter (remember that one? I do), to name a few. This is not necessarily surprising given the period. The roaring twenties where nothing if not a time for moral decay, where Victorian social norms were broken down by political radicalism and social realignments. Wealth and hedonism where the name of the game, baby, and it only makes sense that these became thematic focal points for films of the period. Unfortunately, the list seems fond of these and has made an effort to saturate its contents with films that tackle these, giving everything an acute “been-there, done-that” feeling. Look at the films seen so far on the list, and it is probably the most common topic behind war-fatigue and communist propaganda.

Much like the other films mentioned above Die Büchse is a character study, focusing on the polarizing Lulu, who embodies a strange hybrid of femme fatal and innocence. Characters like Lulu, i.e. fallen prostitutes, at once represent the morally corrupting nature of modernity, what with it’s sexually charged allure, and simultaneously the lost innocence corrupted by said modernity. This is a film trope as old as the medium itself, employed by post-War Korean and pre-revolutionary Chinese cinema to grapple with the anxiety of creeping modernity, and deconstructed relatively recently in Ang Lee’s 2007 film Lust;Caution in the character of Wong Chia-Chi (Tang Wei). That European cinema is choked with the same anxieties during their own ascent to modernity a few decades prior is unsurprising.

Lulu as this thematic focal point emerges as Die Büchse’s greatest strength and weakness. Louise Brooks is transcendent as Lulu, breathing life into an otherwise rote character. It cannot be overemphasized how magnificent her performance is. Tinged with a quiet (at least initially) tragedy, Brooks turns the otherwise wholly unsympathetic, underhanded Lulu into a fallen soul, drawing the audience into a misguided struggle to survive. Closeups of Brooks’ soft visage leaves knots in one’s chest, and at once all her past sins are forgiven, leaving a very human creature. It is almost enough to make up for the film’s deficiencies.

Unfortunately, the unfocused plot does this phenomenal performance little favours. Jumping between Schön’s love-triangle, to his marriage with Lulu, to his murder and Lulu’s trial in the span of less than an hour left me reeling. Truly, the first half of this film could have been stretched into the full two-hour run-time, but instead the story takes a huge leap that leaves the audience unable to place themselves within the narrative landscape. Lulu shifts between manipulative to tragic so suddenly that for the entire first half of the film I struggled to figure out what her or the movie’s “deal” was (at one point I was convinced it was subtle anti-Semitic propaganda, but I won’t get into why). As mentioned Brooks salvages the character as much as she can with the material given, but frankly she deserved a more consistent vision to work with and make the most of her work. That Lulu is frenetic is entirely on the script, not her.

As such, sympathy towards Lulu, on which the most interesting thematic crux rests, wanes. The title implies an analogy between the tale of Pandora and Lulu: a woman brings evil onto the word, if unwittingly. This however buckles under the weight of the film’s narrative inconsistency. The point of the Pandora allegory is that in the face of horrors hope remains, but the attempt to convey this at the end of the film comes off as weak when held-up against the story’s trajectory. Alwa is still destitute and Lulu is murdered at the hands of a deus ex machina. What hope does he gain from Lulu’s death? Why was her death necessary? I understand that, within the context of the period’s themes a creature like Lulu cannot exist without destabilizing the status quo, but her death is handled so clumsily it felt wholly contrived. In retrospect, the serial killer represents the malignant lust created by Lulu’s moral decay, thus making her demise at once a punishment for her transgressions and a tragic loss of innocence, but I maintain that from purely story-telling stance it weakens the film as a whole. Furthermore, while Pandora does unleash evil she does so unwittingly, depending on how you read the story. Lulu is fully aware of her evil actions; her sympathy stems from the circumstances that led her to become the kind of person who could perpetrate them. Thus, the analogy too comes off as contrived.

In truth, the film’s strength lies in the moments within the mess, like Brooks’ performance or small character interactions. My favourite of these is when Lulu and the serial-killer who would become her doom pause to look at a flickering candle in her cold hovel. It is an warm moment between two social-outcasts, who overcome their isolation to experience true intimacy, however brief. It is quite touching, and I wish it was contextualized better.

Additionally, cinematographer Günther Krampf deserves an award for his brilliant framing, which weaves visual metaphor into otherwise dull scenes for moving effect. I’ll take heavy-handed visual symbolism over rote, by the numbers film-making any day. The lighting is one of the best on the list so far. Harsh shadows employed alongside heavy fog in the last twenty minutes create an overwhelming sense of dread, and it’s quite stunning.

Still, regrettably Die Büchse is less than the sum of its parts. Engaging scenes, inspired lighting, and a wonderful performance don’t amount to much when the frame is so flimsy. More than any other film so far I felt that Die Büchse cries for dialogue to better contextualize the proceedings, or at least to better convey the character nuance that it just fell short of achieving. Perhaps others will have a better experience with Die Büchse, but much like Lulu herself I am simply left with a sense of melancholy of what could have been.

Chelovek s kinoapparatom/Man With A Movie Camera (1929)

Country: Soviet Union

Released: January 8th, 1929

Genre: Experimental, Documentary

Directed by: Dziga Vertov

Produced by: VFUKU

Written by:  Dziga Vertov

In my review for Un Chien Andalou I cited its length as one of its virtues, as abstract experimentation, particularly when lacking cohesive plot, is usually ill-suited for long viewings. This of course, insofar as film as entertainment is concerned.

Chelovek s kinoapparatom proves this notion with it’s one hour running time, which quickly collapses the film into a slow, grinding slog.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Chelovek s kinoapparatom, more popularly known as Man With a Movie Camera, is one of THE films; a film that consistently tops best-of lists and invariably will make the rounds in every film study’s course across the world. Chelovek is a cinematic milestone and one of the central pillars of film history. If it seems like this introduction is a premeditated caveat to all the upcoming bashing I hinted at above, I’ll have you know that I actually liked this movie for a whopping twenty to thirty minutes before sliding into a boredom induced state of rigor mortis. No, my heaping of praise stems solely from the fact that there’s little else I can say about the movie without just delving into it’s more metaphysical/philosophical elements.

And just as a quick aside: If you thought my Chien Andalou review was pretentious you ain’t seen nothing yet.

Indeed, Chelovek is a film without a plot, or at least without a conventional one. I’m sure an argument could be made that its footage contains the subtle whisper of a straightforward arch, but I’m sure most people who would make said argument are the kind of assholes who make Facebook posts bragging about their IQs. Or film scholars. Either way, they can kindly fuck off. Chelovek is a self-proclaimed experiment on the power of cinematic narration and editing, and an exploration of the role of the camera vis-à-vis the viewer in presenting its subjects. To that end, the film is, much like Un Chien, less interested in story than in pushing the bounds thematic and narrative conveyance, specifically visual conveyance. The result is a collection of montages and random set pieces filmed across various Soviet cities with virtually no connective thread besides shared theme and a recurring director character that pops up occasionally to drive home to metanarrative.

Before really delving into the abstracts of the film I just want to quickly comment that the musical score for the version I watched was fucking weird. The film begins silently, with a montage of viewers filing into a theatre as an orchestra readies itself. Shots of musicians playing their instruments suddenly flash across the screen, shattering the silence with a emerging musical score. While I appreciated the cleverness in starting the nondiegetic score diegetically to coincide with the on-screen orchestra, the music choice is a bizarre, techno-synth, Tangerine Dream soundscape more better suited to a Blade Runner remake than a 1920s Soviet documentary. Just weird overall, and it became so distracting that after a few minutes I hit mute and resigned myself to silence. Hell, if this is a film about visual experimentation than I suppose it’s only appropriate that I not have any sound to distract me.

In any case, what Vertov accomplishes within this silence is nothing short of amazing, as he succeeds in immersing us into the world on screen through nothing more than clever editing. We are shown Life in its most candid form, and invited to revel in it. Yet it is specifically a mechanical conception of Life. Industry takes centerstage as a myriad of cogs, trains, and machines of all kinds flash across the screen, spinning robotically in the cinematic ether. Through this almost vexing whirlwind of modernity, Vertov draws direct attention to the camera in a way that is almost Bazinian in its intention. What does that mean? Well, during the 40s and 50s a French film theorist named Andre Bazin began exploring the metaphysics and ontology of the photographic image. One of his central theories revolved around the apparatus of the camera as a mediator between the viewer and the objects on screen, which, when displayed in a filmic form, he called “mummified time.” How does the camera distort the conception of the image? Are we able to project life and cinematic subjects unaffected by the mechanical process of film, or in filming them do they inherently become a simulacrum, effectively forming a different entity altogether? Where does the lens end and the viewer begin? These are the kinds of questions explored by Bazin, and Vertov uses Chelovek to add his two-cents to his debate (albeit a few decades prior).

The result, as you’ve probably already noticed, is that Chelovek is Meta with a capital M. If it were any more meta it would be an uninterrupted shot of Dan Harmon yelling the word “film” at the audience for an hour. Its themes center around exploring its own ontological purpose and that of its subjects.  The juxtaposition between factories and the mechanics of the camera draw attention to the paralleled nature of both. The life shown may be mechanized in a superficial sense, in that the subjects of the film work in industrial urbanity, but had the film been composed of pastoral scenery would it be any less mechanical? In being filmed the life, while frozen, becomes mechanized as it is being filtered through the camera apparatus. If this is the case then one could say that film will never be able to fully achieve reality the way Bazin envisioned, effectively transplanting what is on-screen more tangibly into the reality of our existence. To this end perhaps we may turn to the Kuleshov effect raised by montage, i.e. the effect when two images create a singular idea in the mind of the viewer, which Vertov uses liberally. However, is the process through which we achieve reality on screen through our own mental conception any less mechanical than in how the camera conceives it? If not, should we regard the camera as “alive?”

Vertov seems to think so. The camera lens is contrasted with eyes, implying a living thing. This is summarily enforced halfway through the film during a stop motion montage of the camera and tripod doing a little dance, effectively anthropomorphising it.

However, if film can never achieve reality, Vertov is very aware that we can approach reality. Most of the scenes were filmed candidly, and subjects will often look directly at the camera and smile, or even look away and cover their face in embarrassment. The effect is voyeuristic, and despite the archival nature of film the spectators are themselves left feeling embarrassed, like we’re violating the subject’s privacy in the moment of viewing, even though the act of filming has long since happened. This is underscored by the aforementioned parallels between lens and eyes, and further reinforced by the director character, who’s always left lingering in shots, often made ethereal through special effects as a reminder of the omnipresent nature of the camera in this world.

This brief introduction to Bazin and montage barely scratches the surface of what Vertov achieves in Chelovek. Indeed, there are countless facets to this discussion, hence why entire books and film classes have been dedicated to them. So, for now, I’ll leave you with these ramblings and the assurance that, from an analytical point of view, Chelovek is endlessly fascinating if only for the discussions it raises.

However, this discursive fascination does not last. One can only be fascinated by the ontology of film for so long before the mind wanders and all your left with is random shots and Soviet city life. No characters, no plot, no CGI explosion-fest equals no endurance, and as much as film students may tell me that “the camera is the character, man!” it won’t make the film any more entertaining. Compelling? Sure, it’s compelling as all hell, but you’ll never convince me that it’s fun, just like you’ll never convince me that Beowulf is a more interesting read that Harry Potter. For at the end of the day I watch films to be entertained, and while film philosophy is a hoot and a half, without a cohesive narrative it can only hold my attention for so long.

In short, Chelovek s kinoapparatom is a revolutionary and infinitely fascinating masterpiece best left to scholars and film studies classrooms. If you are at all interested in the ideas I butchered above give it a look, but otherwise give The General a second viewing instead.

Parpancha Pash/A Throw of Dice (1929)

Country: United Kingdom/British India/Germany

Released: August 16th, 1929

Genre: Romance/Epic

Directed by: Franz Osten

Produced by: Nadine Luque, et al.

Written by:  W.A. Burton & Max Jungk

Prapancha Pash, also known as A Throw of Dice, follows to Indian Princes, Sohan (Himansu Rai) and Ranjit (Charu Roy), competing for the hand of a maiden named Sunita (Seeta Devi). The princes, who are both cousins, encounter the beautiful youth on a hunting trip, during which Sohan attempts and fails to assassinate Ranjit in a bid to inherit his kingdoms. After being nursing Ranjit back to health, Sunita and Ranjit fall madly in love, which makes the nefarious Sohan jealous. After numerous failed attempts to steal Sunita from his cousin (including framing him for Sunita’s father’s murder), Sohan convinces Ranjit to gamble away his noble title and eventually his freedom. Sohan wins, turning Ranjit into his slave and taking Sunita for himself. The film ends with Ranjit storming Sohan’s castle to save his beloved after finding out Sohan used loaded dice.

Upon it’s re-release in 2007 critics raved of Parpancha’s beauty, calling every frame a visual spectacle. While I can’t really disagree (after all the locals and costuming are quite exquisite) it is a very cinematographically superficial kind of beauty, relegated to the stage rather than the frame. For while the lavish castles and opulent regalia of the princes are dazzling, it is presented in a very straightforward and, dare I say, generic manner. Camera angles are flat and standard, and director Franz Osten doesn’t do anything creative with his cinematography besides trying to show us all the neat stuff he’s procured. Now don’t get me wrong, the stuff is neat. Fire eaters, cobras, castles, harems, elephants, tigers, jungles are quite a thing to behold. But despite not being that much later than many of the earlier movies on this list Prapancha feels dated; like its techniques were obsolete or uninspired at the time of filming.

This is probably an unfortunate side-effect of the list. When you have 1001 movies not every single one can be revolutionary, or succeed in every way every time. Sometimes just good is good enough, and a movie with great set design or great use of music but mediocre story or cinematography is worthy is only it succeeds in one field. Plus, following such a weird and attention-grabbing film as Un Chien Andalou would be tough on any movie.

For all my criticism though Parpancha is a good movie. Despite general cinemotographic blandness Osten presents the occasional forced perspective shot or library shot of wildlife to keep us engaged. Also, the acting is great. All three leads to a wonderful job, but I must give particular praise to Himansu Rai as Sohan. The guy is the perfect sleazebag, and his curly, shit-eating grins were the best part of the movie. Osten seems aware of this, as liberal use of close-ups allows us to revel in Rai’s mischievousness, which he seems to enjoy as much as the audience, something I always appreciate in film. 

The story was also pretty good, or at least serviceable. I liked the gambling angle, particularly Rajit's gambling addiction, which if nothing else kept him from becoming a Gary Sue. The ending however was disappointing. I thought that the film was going to end with a high-stakes dice game, which would have been interesting and original. Unfortunately they eschew that in favour of a castle storming scene. I know it’s odd to find a siege boring but I’ve seen it done bigger and better and often, so it was just kind of meh. Despite this the plot had enough original elements from being totally generic. 

Lastly, I know it's become somewhat cliche for me to mention on this blog, but the music really helped make this movie. I watched a version that, I assume, was the BFI (British Film Institute) 2007 re-release, and the music was a very well orchestrated use of traditional Indian styles that totally sucked me into the proceedings. That being said the music felt almost…too good, and uses of contemporary vocals felt anachronistic. Not because of the musical style themselves, but because they felt like song choices that wouldn’t have been used in the 1920s. Still though, I rather have had them than not, as they made up for some of the slower moments.

As I mentioned though the real stars are the stage manager and costume designer. The castles and costuming are something to behold, and stand far above many of the other movies on this list if only because it felt like they were using actual historical artifacts instead of fictionalized imitations. I can’t say if this was the case but it sure felt that way. It’s just a shame there weren’t more establishing shots to really show off the beauty. It was almost as if Osten was deliberately exercising restraint, which nine times out of ten I would applaud, but this was that one case where the film really would have been serviced by more braggadocios cinematography. If you got it, flaunt it. You know what I mean?

While the film is technically a British and German production the story is based on a chapter of the Mahabharata, an epic from the Gupta Period (320 CE-550 CE). Additionally the film was filmed in India cast and exclusively with local Indian actors, which is nice. As such it is often regarded as an early example of Hindi cinema. I hope that this is the first of many Indian movies on the list as I’m woefully unfamiliar with movies from that part of the world and look forward to the possibility of exploring such a vibrant and eclectic cinema culture.

So overall a good, if a bit generic film. I guess that's why this blogpost is drier than normal, there just isn't that much to rail on or rave about. That’s the problem with watching a movie everyday, unless something really stands out in quality (or lack thereof) it just kind of falls by the wayside, forgotten. Still, I’d like to imagine that every movie at least leaves me with something, even if its just the odd shot or acting choice. I guess only time will tell.

Un Chien Andalou/An Andalusian Dog (1929)

Country: France

Released: June 6th, 1929

Genre: Horror, Surrealism

Directed by: Luis Buñuel

Produced by: Luis Buñuel & Pierre Braunberger

Written by:  Luis Buñuel & Salvador Dalí

Alright boys and girls, put on your berets, close that Faulkner book you’re reading and take a big puff on that blunt, because we’re going to stick our heads firmly up our own rectums and look at Salvador Dali and Luis Buñuel’s Un Chien Andalou.

The plot is that a bunch of stuff happens. That’s it. If you are at all familiar with the works of Salvador Dali or the surrealist movement that emerged in Europe during the 1920s you’ve probably already figured out that “plot” is being rather generous. The purpose of surrealism is, according to Andre Breton at least, to manifest thought. Or, more poetically, to shatter the barriers between dream and real to create a kind of “super-reality,” meshing the two into what can be called ‘ultimate reality.’

How Buddhist. I tell you, Nagarjuna would be proud. And weirded out probably.

I’m honestly hesitant to say anything more about the movie. This really is a film that needs to be experienced cold turkey, and I encourage my readers (all three of you) to watch it before continuing the review. It’s only twenty minutes long, so don’t give the excuse that you don’t have time. That’s B.S. Go watch it, now. I wholeheartedly recommend it.

Seriously, watch it. Then come back.

Have you watched it? No. Whatever, you’re loss.

Where was I? Oh right, serialism. As you can imagine from a movement that seeks to mash dreams and reality, Un Chien Andalou is rather purposefully devoid of plot or traditional narrative. Thus, in lieu of summarizing what happens, instead I’m going to try and analyze the films symbolic minutia and mes-en-scene in some vain attempt to make sense of the madness. Here we go!

Buñuel stated that he made Un Chien with the intent of offending the sensibilities of the traditional bourgeois literati, which he held in utter contempt for their self-aggrandized artistic tastes. Boy was he surprised when said literati turned the tables on him and ended up absolutely loving the movie. I guess that just goes to show that French intellectuals would love anything if it’s labeled “avant garde.”

Shock, however, is right. Buñuel spares no time bringing out the big guns, as the film opens with probably its most famous shot wherein a man slits a woman’s eyeball with a razor in an effect that would make Rob Bottin proud.

Now because this is the film’s most iconic moment, the shock factor was a bit lost on me. But I can imagine that at the time it must have been quite scandalous, especially considering that Buñuel used a calf’s eye to create the effect, giving it a very visceral, life-like quality.

"Whoops"

What follows from there is a meditation on sex, violence, and our innate animalism. We are but beasts, drawn to the grotesque, the film says, driven by lust and violence. Our feeble attempts to smother these baser instincts through a civilization that is no less grotesque is for naught.

How cheerful.

As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, the interwar period was a time of cultural rebellion. Not surprising since most artists at this time viewed established social mores as having directly led Europe to cull itself in the Great War. Dali and Buñuel seize this sentiment wholeheartedly; the film really has an axe to grind against the bourgeois, which Buñuel posits as deeply corrupt. A scene wherein a woman in poking at a severed hand while a crowd of suited gentlemen clamor to get a look really exemplifies this sentiment. The police try to keep the crowd at bay but it is no use, the savage suited men all push and shove at each other for a chance to gawk at the gore, turning the violence into a spectacle for their own amusement. After the hand is put away they leave, only to return after the woman gets run over by a car and a new, equally sadistic show is offered.

This violence in turn triggers our ‘protagonist’ (Pierre Batcheff) into a frenzied lust. He throws himself on his young companion (Simone Mareuil), who can naught by stand helplessly as she is groped, leaving the young man a drooling, bestial mess.

She flees, and he tries to chase after her but is held down by a series of weights that materialize suddenly.

These weights go as follows:

-Two slabs of stone, which I interpreted as evoking the ten commandments as presented by Moses.

-Two priests. Like really, two dudes just lying there, tied to this raving sex fiend. It was actually pretty funny.

-Two pianos with dead mules in them.

Feeling pretentious yet? Don’t worry, I’m not done.

First off, they used real mule carcasses, which is disturbing and in violation of current animal cruelty laws, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find it breathtaking. Second, the pianos seem to represent modern society and its cultural landscapes, while the mule carcasses imply an inherent perverseness to said culture. Our protagonist’s lust is weighted down by religion and ‘cultured’ society, but these are no less grotesque than his base desires. The tango Buñuel plays throughout really hammers this point home. Tango is a very modern genre, and, despite being associated with the sophistication and culture of Buenos Aires, is also regarded as decadent in its hypersexualization and violence. It is a very animalistic dance that hinges on aggressive sexuality. So much so that it is often described as a “vertical rape,” thus making it the perfect choice for exploring the themes of the perverseness and suppressed violence of the bourgeois.

Am I being a downer? I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be. It’s just so rare that I get to flex my literature and film study muscles outside of serving people at a drive-through, and I deeply enjoyed the overt symbolism. I’ve often complained that some films beat you over the head with their themes but Un Chien doesn’t have that problem because it doesn’t pretend to be anything other than a bunch of symbols. My disdain for weak story is subsumed in the film’s irreverence for nonsense. Which is not to say that the film doesn’t make sense. While lacking a clear-cut story, Un Chieni’s continuity (or lack thereof) is laced through its themes, which is why I wasn’t left scratching my head. Well I was, but not because I didn’t understand what was happening. I knew exactly what was happening, it was just my job to figure out why it was happening.

And you know what? That’s fine sometimes. I can handle nonsense if it’s at least interesting and doesn’t trying to pretend it isn’t nonsense. Buñuel and Dali set out to show us nonsense and say something with it, which I appreciate. To this end, the film’s length is an absolute boon. Twenty minutes is just right for nonsense. I never once felt tired or bored, and it did not overstay its welcome. Furthermore, it allowed the film to be consistently gross without leaving me desensitized. Kudos for Buñuel and Dali for knowing not to not linger once it’s all said in done.

Let me offer some last few thoughts before wrapping up.

As I mentioned I wasn’t too shocked by most of the film, mostly because I was familiar with many of its scenes. That being said, the final shot of two carcasses half buried in sand with the caption “Springtime” was genuinely disturbing. Their inky eyes and still, broken bodies really left an impression, and my having never seen that still only made it all the more graphic.

Lastly, the special effects are absolutely stunning. Seriously, that these hold up today is a testament to how good they are, and that they make most CGI-choked blockbusters look fake as hell is shameful for modern filmmakers. I actually gasped “oh cool” on one occasion, and the film gets a recommendation on the effects alone. That scene with the ants crawling out of the dude’s palm? Fucking chills, man.

To conclude, I thoroughly enjoyed Un Chien Andalou. As far as classics go, it’s up there so far with Caligari, and I recommend it to…well just about everyone. Just be prepared to feel squeamish at times.

Potomok Chingiskhana/Storm Over Asia (1928)

Country: Soviet Union

Released: 1928

Genre: Drama, Propaganda

Directed by: Vsevolod Pudovkin

Written by:  Osip Brik; I. Novokshonov

Potomok Chingiskhana is not a bad film.

Boy, ain’t that a resounding endorsement?

Let me try that again:

 Potomok Chingiskhana (a.k.a "The Heir to Genghis Khan," a.k.a Storm Over Asia) stars Valéry Inkijinoff as Bair the Mongol, and if you couldn’t tell by the fact that our protagonist it titled “the Mongol,” Potomok really wears its race relations on its sleeve. In any case, Bair is a poor trapper, etching out the best life he can on the harsh Asian step by selling furs at a local bazaar. One day he comes across a rare white fox, which we are told is worth a fortune. However, the bazar’s evil, white capitalist fur merchant swindles Bair, effectively purchasing the rare pelt for a fraction of the cost. When Bair protests, a scuffle ensues and he is forced to flee to the mountains, where he joins group of communist guerrilla fighters. Eventually he is captured by the British authorities (who control Mongolia in this alternate-history), who discover that he is a direct descendant of Genghis Khan and decide to establish him as a puppet ruler of the region. The film ends with Bair revolting against his imperialist masters and leading the whole of Mongolia in rebellion, just like Genghis Khan would have wanted I guess.

If that plot summery sounds too cohesive I apologize, that's my bad. In truth, keeping track of the film’s tenuous narrative thread becomes increasingly difficult as the plot progresses, largely because numerous subplots and characters are set up but then seemingly abandoned at the drop of a hat. For example, the communist guerrilla fighters are planted with seeds of personality and greater thematic purpose that are never really reaped. After being introduced to this very tight-knit group of rag-tag fighters they are immediately forgotten, and we never see them again. The same treatment is given to Bair’s family, which feels bizarre given the amount of pathos the film establishing for them. The result of these starts and stops is that I genuinely didn't know where the story was going. But not in a good, "what'll happen next" kind of way. More in a confusing, "what is happening" kind of way.

This confusion is compounded by an weirdly indecisive tone. Indecisive because, and I never thought I’d say this, it does not condemn capitalism enough! What I mean is that Potomok is a propaganda film that forgot its propaganda, and the result is that I didn't really know what the film wanted to be. Besides the fur merchant character there is no character that really embodies the evil industrialist or whatever. Sure, the British officers are bad imperialists, but no more than, you know, British officers would be. I mean it’s the fucking British imperial army. They’re whole modus operandi is imperialism, and just having them there doesn’t really scream propaganda any more than a film like, I don’t know, Zulu does.

I guess what I’m saying is that what this movie really needed was a monocle-wearing capitalist squeezing a lemon whilst cackling withholding bread from starving orphans, a la Strike. Without that the film comes across as too…nuanced. Now I’m not saying that nuance is a bad thing. However it's an unintentional nuance. The film presents this very clear propagandistic set-up but doesn't go the extra mile of really caricaturing its themes. It felt like director Vsevolod Pudovkin was tasked with making a propaganda movie and half-assed it. Sure, propaganda is exhausting but at least its focused and consistent. Potomok comes across as confused and plodding.

Or perhaps its trying to be intentionally subtle. Halfway through I began wondering about tropes and their relation to propaganda. Perhaps understanding the film’s message requires familiarization with certain narrative cues that were a part of shared cultural discourse within the Soviet Union at the time. Similar to how when we, being exposed to Hollywood film discourse, we see a down on his luck schlub with a heart of gold we are conditioned to root for him. Perhaps the shared language of Soviet film precludes explanation, and when the audience sees a group of finely dressed flappers they are instinctively identify them as ‘bad capitalists’ because that's how the trope is utilize within their cinematic culture. This raises a lot of interesting questions, like how this kind of cultural discourse is disseminated or consumed differently when it is based around overt propaganda, and whether it is still prevalent in post-Soviet Russian in some, more subtle fashion.

But I’ll leave these to more practiced film scholars. I'll just say that as someone who isn't familiar with Soviet narrative tropes the movie just came off as tonally inconsistent.

Let me briefly nitpick the plot some more before moving on to the good. First off, the British were never in Mongolia so there’s that little historical inaccuracy. Second, why does being a descendant of Genghis Khan matter for legitimizing a ruler? Motherfucker hadn’t been relevant for eight-hundred years by that point, and even if he was he wasn’t exactly known for his celibacy and good decorum. One in two-hundred men in the world are direct descendants of the Great Khan. Let me repeat that: One in Two-Hundred! Why is this jerk so special? Also, I find the calls for racial unity to be rather galling considering the Soviet Union’s less than stellar policies towards its non-Russian minorities at the time.

Nitpicks and racial hypocrisy aside however there’s a lot to admire, for the first-half at least. Pudovkin takes full advantage of the local with wide, expansive shots of the Asian steppe that look like something out of Lawrence of Arabia, so much so that I wouldn’t be surprised if David Lean was directly inspired by Potomok. Furthermore, I appreciate effort to accurately portray indigenous lifestyles. I can’t say if it was totally accurate but it sure felt like it, more so than most contemporary films at least. It was refreshing to see the film cast mostly indigenous actors. Even if the actual government was abhorrent to these peoples, this film could of fooled me.

As for aesthetics some of you Eisenstein enthusiasts will be happy to learn that the montage is alive and well, and Pudovkin makes heavy use of it throughout the film. Not surprising considering how much the Soviet government themselves pushed montage as “da best” cinematic style ever. In any case, Pudovkin offers what is probably one of the most thematically interesting uses of montage I’ve ever seen… ever. Halfway through the movie the head British officer and his wife are set to travel to a Buddhist temple to establish diplomatic ties with the local lama. The movie fast cuts between them grooming themselves for the occasion and monks making offerings to a statue of the Buddha, drawing direct parallels between the “rituals” of both cultures. The sequence is remarkably well edited and, while a tad on the nose, draws an interesting cross-cultural parallel between the Buddha and the self-deified British.

Following this there’s a fairly funny moment when the “grand, wise” lama is revealed to be a child which I appreciated both for its humor and its accurate display of reincarnation lineages of central Asian Buddhism (or at least Tibetan Buddhism, I can't really speak for Mongolian schools). However the film just kind of loses steam after that, and the subplot of establishing Bair as a kind of puppet king comes out of nowhere and isn’t compelling enough to carry the remaining forty minutes.

Overall, like most other Soviet films on this list so far, it is a visually stunning film with a half-baked plot. Many would say that that’s good enough, but personally I’ve never been one to be taken by stunning visuals if there’s isn’t at least a semi-compelling plot to frame all the pretty stuff around. Still, it’s not a bad flick, and I would actually recommend  it to fans of early film, just don’t be surprised if you find yourself gradually losing interest after the first hour or so.