Alexandra
Directed by Alexander Sokurov
at Film Forum
Nobody “supports the troops” like Russian director Alexander Sokurov. His new film Alexandra, about an aging, stocky Soviet woman (Galina Vishnevskaya) who visits her grandson at his encampment during the Chechen War in 1996, is a patriotic reverie. Sokurov continues the sensual-spiritual nationalistic impressionism of his 2003 Father and Son, where military men made objects of unabashed adoration.
Grandma Alexandra may be lonesome and cantankerous, but she’s the irascible spirit of Mother Russia; and Sokurov shows her fondness for the boys who sacrifice. Alexandra implausibly snoops around their barracks, tents, even scurrying inside a tank. “It smells,” she snorts, and her guide answers, “It’s guns, iron, men; you’ll get used to it.” This tank scene suggests Sokurov’s version of a Disney theme-park ride; it domesticates the military through Alexandra’s wide-eyed tour.
If an American movie dared bless its troops with a grandmother’s approving USO visitation to Fallujah, critics would howl. So why did Alexandra open the same week as Kimberly Peirce’s Stop-Loss without any critics comparing these two contrasting items of propaganda? It’s impossible to watch Sokurov’s movie apolitically. You can’t help thinking about the diametrically different approach that peer-pressure American filmmakers now take toward U.S. military occupation. In Stop-Loss, Peirce kowtows to liberal critique while Sokurov shows his own—greater—conviction and artistry.
But the nature of Sokurov’s artistry becomes a sticking point. Sokura’s seeming indifference to politics doesn’t disguise his national pride. Yet his chauvinism—though meditational and artsy—is not necessarily apolitical. Alexandra’s celebration of brotherhood and motherhood may warm the cockles of diehard commie cineastes, but it exemplifies the kind of patriotism Peirce couldn’t quite bring Stop-Loss to express. In her homecoming scenes, the townswomen are not only panicky but also guilt-ridden, while Alexandra looks upon all her boys benevolently—and they return the gaze. The juxtaposition of these films moves one to consider what that phrase “support the troops, not the war” really means.
Sokurov avoids political critique of the Soviets’ invasion. The wartime chaos of ethnic differences (Caucasians call the Chechens “Slavs”) is simplified to Alexandra’s instant sisterhood with old women in a Chechen marketplace. She goes there to buy candy and cigarettes for the border guards and notices the locals’ deprivation, including the disenfranchised Chechen youth about whom one matriarch worries, “He does what he wants now, I’m afraid they’ll all get like that.” Yet Sokurov’s overarching sensibility sanctions what the soldiers are as Russian beings in addition to defending what their conscription demands of them. Here’s where Alexandra extends the spiritual eroticism of Father and Son. Alexandra’s grandson, Denis (Vasily Shevtov), her guide Andrey Sania (Andrei Bogdanov), a baby-faced soldier and the unit commander all represent an idealized range of Russian manhood. They’re military peacocks—hands on hips, legs spread, strong, stern. Alexander Burov’s camera encases them in a glowing, khaki-to-sepia palette: at one point giving Sania a foot-to-head, Warholian once-over.
Sokurov observes Alexandra’s grumpiness, but the men look into the camera, forcing audience connection. Whatever the Chechen war meant, Sokura isn’t hung up on issues. He captures a delicate intimacy between Alexandra and the soldiers. In this atmosphere of Kalishnikovs and hovering males, Sokurov elicits a special tenderness: The soldiers become boyish and bashful, and Denis even braids Alexandra’s hair as a pre-sexual grandson might. While Bruno Dumont made a more topical war allegory in Flanders—intentionally reflecting the Iraq War, Alexandra concentrates on visual poetry. The foggy night maneuvers sequence evokes the friscalating dusk light in John Ford’s 1945 They Were Expendable and the premise of Alexandra’s busybodying recalls more than a little of Ford’s stressful mother-son wartime story Pilgrimage. Sokurov’s sentimental poetry embroiders a nation’s personal connections to the military; he shows the ineffable grace that contemporary American filmmakers are too pent up to grant us—truths about fealty that our movies neglect. They stop short. It’s our loss.
Directed by Alexander Sokurov
at Film Forum
Nobody “supports the troops” like Russian director Alexander Sokurov. His new film Alexandra, about an aging, stocky Soviet woman (Galina Vishnevskaya) who visits her grandson at his encampment during the Chechen War in 1996, is a patriotic reverie. Sokurov continues the sensual-spiritual nationalistic impressionism of his 2003 Father and Son, where military men made objects of unabashed adoration.
Grandma Alexandra may be lonesome and cantankerous, but she’s the irascible spirit of Mother Russia; and Sokurov shows her fondness for the boys who sacrifice. Alexandra implausibly snoops around their barracks, tents, even scurrying inside a tank. “It smells,” she snorts, and her guide answers, “It’s guns, iron, men; you’ll get used to it.” This tank scene suggests Sokurov’s version of a Disney theme-park ride; it domesticates the military through Alexandra’s wide-eyed tour.
If an American movie dared bless its troops with a grandmother’s approving USO visitation to Fallujah, critics would howl. So why did Alexandra open the same week as Kimberly Peirce’s Stop-Loss without any critics comparing these two contrasting items of propaganda? It’s impossible to watch Sokurov’s movie apolitically. You can’t help thinking about the diametrically different approach that peer-pressure American filmmakers now take toward U.S. military occupation. In Stop-Loss, Peirce kowtows to liberal critique while Sokurov shows his own—greater—conviction and artistry.
But the nature of Sokurov’s artistry becomes a sticking point. Sokura’s seeming indifference to politics doesn’t disguise his national pride. Yet his chauvinism—though meditational and artsy—is not necessarily apolitical. Alexandra’s celebration of brotherhood and motherhood may warm the cockles of diehard commie cineastes, but it exemplifies the kind of patriotism Peirce couldn’t quite bring Stop-Loss to express. In her homecoming scenes, the townswomen are not only panicky but also guilt-ridden, while Alexandra looks upon all her boys benevolently—and they return the gaze. The juxtaposition of these films moves one to consider what that phrase “support the troops, not the war” really means.
Sokurov avoids political critique of the Soviets’ invasion. The wartime chaos of ethnic differences (Caucasians call the Chechens “Slavs”) is simplified to Alexandra’s instant sisterhood with old women in a Chechen marketplace. She goes there to buy candy and cigarettes for the border guards and notices the locals’ deprivation, including the disenfranchised Chechen youth about whom one matriarch worries, “He does what he wants now, I’m afraid they’ll all get like that.” Yet Sokurov’s overarching sensibility sanctions what the soldiers are as Russian beings in addition to defending what their conscription demands of them. Here’s where Alexandra extends the spiritual eroticism of Father and Son. Alexandra’s grandson, Denis (Vasily Shevtov), her guide Andrey Sania (Andrei Bogdanov), a baby-faced soldier and the unit commander all represent an idealized range of Russian manhood. They’re military peacocks—hands on hips, legs spread, strong, stern. Alexander Burov’s camera encases them in a glowing, khaki-to-sepia palette: at one point giving Sania a foot-to-head, Warholian once-over.
Sokurov observes Alexandra’s grumpiness, but the men look into the camera, forcing audience connection. Whatever the Chechen war meant, Sokura isn’t hung up on issues. He captures a delicate intimacy between Alexandra and the soldiers. In this atmosphere of Kalishnikovs and hovering males, Sokurov elicits a special tenderness: The soldiers become boyish and bashful, and Denis even braids Alexandra’s hair as a pre-sexual grandson might. While Bruno Dumont made a more topical war allegory in Flanders—intentionally reflecting the Iraq War, Alexandra concentrates on visual poetry. The foggy night maneuvers sequence evokes the friscalating dusk light in John Ford’s 1945 They Were Expendable and the premise of Alexandra’s busybodying recalls more than a little of Ford’s stressful mother-son wartime story Pilgrimage. Sokurov’s sentimental poetry embroiders a nation’s personal connections to the military; he shows the ineffable grace that contemporary American filmmakers are too pent up to grant us—truths about fealty that our movies neglect. They stop short. It’s our loss.
