The Cranes are Flying
Mikhail Kalatozov's The Cranes are Flying (1957) is a brilliant film not only for its story and cinemetography, but for the social conditions in which it was created.
During Stalin's reign art was reduced to quiet films bordering on propaganda for the Soviet machine, and not much else existed above ground. This isn't to say art was dead. Art will never die, even under the worst conditions. There are many great works to be discovered from this period. But there is a heaviness in their conception and design. I watch knowing there is a silence at work: not only in what the art doesn't dare say, but also in the lack of attitude in the composition. The art of the Soviet Union is not sexy, and does not sway or stagger with the genius of youthful celebration. There is no abandonment; every thought and action needed to be accounted for; and this is where the silence gets heavy. The silence is exactly where you will find the genius of Soviet art. It is a controlled rage. Grigori Chukrai's Ballad of a Soldier (1959) and Sergei Bondarchuk's Destiny of a Man(1959) also brilliantly use subtlety and silence to their advantage as well. By 1957, The method, it seems, was to make a simple gesture, such as the lowering of a head, the weakened shoulders of a man, creases on a face, or the hollow, sunken eyes of a character represent a final vestige of emotion. The pain and terror of the Soviet Union had taken away human sensibility, and the broken souls found in Soviet art are giving their last cries of humanity.
Because speaking out against atrocities would get you killed, Soviet artists studied their possibilities and created a new language. Silence was the new communication from which their voices would rise.
By 1957 artists were encouraged by Stalin's death, but perhaps still a bit hesitant. There seems to be an exploration of boundaries: an exercise in how far they could really go. Kalatozov's film works with the wreckage of 20th century Russian history, and sets a light inside the darkness of Soviet terror. A sudden burst of light under such conditions is not always advisable. Illumination of truth is often painful, and seeing things once veiled shakes the foundation of everything which tries to save.
Kalatozov's film is an emotional experience, but that is the point. Transition never comes easy. The Cranes are Flying allows its audience to grieve. As did Bondarchuk and Chukrai's work. Chris Fujiwara writes, "In film, the benefits of the thaw were especially far-reaching, as filmmakers abandoned the monotonous cliches and rote optimism of the Stalin era and opened the private lives of ordinary people to a cinematic scrutiny that embraced ambivalence and uncertainty." Kalatozov's work unleashes an emotional narrative, simply because it was time.
Post-Stalin art was rising. A voice was beginning to emerge, but it was slow and quiet. Not entirely unsure of itself, but calculated. Calculated not only out of fear, but to make sure it honored the dead souls which were in the room.
The movie ends when German occupation is over, and the trains return home. As the soldiers meet their loved ones on the platform a loudspeaker announces, "We shall live not to destroy, but to build a new life!" As Veronica hands her flowers to the surrounding soldiers she becomes lost in a sea of people, celebrating reunion, celebrating family, and celebrating life. And at the center of this is the idea of love, challenging even the darkest of human emotions.
During Stalin's reign art was reduced to quiet films bordering on propaganda for the Soviet machine, and not much else existed above ground. This isn't to say art was dead. Art will never die, even under the worst conditions. There are many great works to be discovered from this period. But there is a heaviness in their conception and design. I watch knowing there is a silence at work: not only in what the art doesn't dare say, but also in the lack of attitude in the composition. The art of the Soviet Union is not sexy, and does not sway or stagger with the genius of youthful celebration. There is no abandonment; every thought and action needed to be accounted for; and this is where the silence gets heavy. The silence is exactly where you will find the genius of Soviet art. It is a controlled rage. Grigori Chukrai's Ballad of a Soldier (1959) and Sergei Bondarchuk's Destiny of a Man(1959) also brilliantly use subtlety and silence to their advantage as well. By 1957, The method, it seems, was to make a simple gesture, such as the lowering of a head, the weakened shoulders of a man, creases on a face, or the hollow, sunken eyes of a character represent a final vestige of emotion. The pain and terror of the Soviet Union had taken away human sensibility, and the broken souls found in Soviet art are giving their last cries of humanity.
Because speaking out against atrocities would get you killed, Soviet artists studied their possibilities and created a new language. Silence was the new communication from which their voices would rise.
By 1957 artists were encouraged by Stalin's death, but perhaps still a bit hesitant. There seems to be an exploration of boundaries: an exercise in how far they could really go. Kalatozov's film works with the wreckage of 20th century Russian history, and sets a light inside the darkness of Soviet terror. A sudden burst of light under such conditions is not always advisable. Illumination of truth is often painful, and seeing things once veiled shakes the foundation of everything which tries to save.
Kalatozov's film is an emotional experience, but that is the point. Transition never comes easy. The Cranes are Flying allows its audience to grieve. As did Bondarchuk and Chukrai's work. Chris Fujiwara writes, "In film, the benefits of the thaw were especially far-reaching, as filmmakers abandoned the monotonous cliches and rote optimism of the Stalin era and opened the private lives of ordinary people to a cinematic scrutiny that embraced ambivalence and uncertainty." Kalatozov's work unleashes an emotional narrative, simply because it was time.
Post-Stalin art was rising. A voice was beginning to emerge, but it was slow and quiet. Not entirely unsure of itself, but calculated. Calculated not only out of fear, but to make sure it honored the dead souls which were in the room.
The movie ends when German occupation is over, and the trains return home. As the soldiers meet their loved ones on the platform a loudspeaker announces, "We shall live not to destroy, but to build a new life!" As Veronica hands her flowers to the surrounding soldiers she becomes lost in a sea of people, celebrating reunion, celebrating family, and celebrating life. And at the center of this is the idea of love, challenging even the darkest of human emotions.
