Leviathan is the forth feature film from the acclaimed Russian director, Andrey Petrovich Zvyagintsev. After its Cannes premiere earlier this year, the film has been met with widespread critical praise, while also taking the festival circuit by storm and collecting accolades wherever it went. However, I feel that there is a certain exoticization of its subjective matter among Western and American critics, who often pigeonhole it solely as a tale of corruption in today's Russia. While that is a worthwhile interpretation, it it also one that unfairly limits the scope of this complex and ultimately universally valid film. The director himself has stated in interviews that he was inspired by an incident that took place in real life in the United States. Furthermore, Leviathan was partially funded by the Russian government, which also submitted it to 2015's Academy Awards and is currently heavily promoting it abroad. In fact, most of its screenings in Europe are directly supported by the Russian state, which is essential to the distribution of a non-commercial film such as this one, so, its offensiveness to Putin's regime is highly debatable and worse over, its politicization detracts from the discussion of the merits of this modern classic.
Leviathan's merits are many, divided between its script and visuals that share the film's metaphors equally. It is a more dynamic film compared to the tradition of Russian cinema and less pictorial than Zvyagintsev's previous attempts, boasting simple yet effective composition. It is beautifully shot in the cold colors of the Russian North with the dark and grainy inflection of 35mm film texturing it. This has all been preserved in the masterfully done digital copy of the film. Though the takes are short by Russian standards, the camera lingers meaningfully on several inanimate objects throughout the movie. The seamless feel is enhanced by fluid editing that makes the film look like one continuous shot and harkens back to Aleksandr Sokurov's style.
Despite the implied universality of the story, the film feels intimate with its many close-ups of the actors' faces and the seemingly introspective focus of the camera. It is also remarkably well-acted in a naturalist manner that adds realism to the allegoric content of the film. Fitting their milieu perfectly, the actors inhabit their characters down to the smallest gesture and replicate their drama without allowing any of them to fall into caricature, a risk that looms large with every parable. Leviathan is many things, but above all, it is utterly and movingly human.
The film is quiet, as it relies on in-camera dialogue which mixes with ambient sounds, like those of rain or waves breaking against rocky shores. No music disturbs the flow of the film, only a pop song from a car or restaurant radio briefly seeps into one scene or the other. No directorial artifices mar the naturalism of the unfolding events, any deeper meaning hidden in a camera pan or a line of dialogue. Zvyagintsev does not force the allegory of his creation onto the audience, allowing them the freedom of reading it as a straightforward drama, if they so wish. This ease betrays the confident hand of an artist, who does not overplay his hand to make a point. Any kind of point. Instead, he makes an offering.
Leviathan has my favorite script of the year, specifically because it works on so many levels. It can viewed as a regular drama, as a Christian parable of both the suffering of the just man and the fallen into temptation of the servants of God, as an incarnation of the timeless historical struggle of the little man crushed by lawless authority. It is a modern retelling of the book of Job, which is amply quoted in the movie. It is a cautionary political fable about corruption and corruptibility. It is a tale of betrayal: personal, of citizens by civil institutions, of Christians by spiritual leaders who side with the temporal power against them. It is about how we are all under God or afraid of being abandoned by Him or about an absentee God. It is tragedy but with specks of hope. Or is it entirely bleak, cold and hostile like Arctic winters? Guilt is also a running theme—collective, individual, moral as well as legal. So is selfishness and the film can be read as an exploration of its extremes and consequences thereof.
Through all this depth of possibilities and interpretations shimmers life-like dialogue and Zvyagintsev's uncanny sense for drama that never strays into melodrama. There is no ominous build-up tailor-made to rack up tension, only hints that seed uncertainty into his confident camera work. He understands that real tragedy is often mute, creeping unnoticed onto its victims and gutting them sometimes with just one knock on the door. It all adds to the intimacy of a film that still feels grand, as, while there might be formal differences, we are all susceptible to betrayals, loss or abuse from authorities, because above all, Leviathan is about being human and about the horrible, horrible things we are prone to do to each other with or without meaning to or simply because we can.
My assessment: masterpiece.
Film details according to imdb.com:
Directed by: Andrey Zvyagintsev
Written by: Oleg Negin & Andrey Zvyagintsev
Cinematography by: Mikhail Krichman
Shot on 35mm
Leviathan's merits are many, divided between its script and visuals that share the film's metaphors equally. It is a more dynamic film compared to the tradition of Russian cinema and less pictorial than Zvyagintsev's previous attempts, boasting simple yet effective composition. It is beautifully shot in the cold colors of the Russian North with the dark and grainy inflection of 35mm film texturing it. This has all been preserved in the masterfully done digital copy of the film. Though the takes are short by Russian standards, the camera lingers meaningfully on several inanimate objects throughout the movie. The seamless feel is enhanced by fluid editing that makes the film look like one continuous shot and harkens back to Aleksandr Sokurov's style.
Despite the implied universality of the story, the film feels intimate with its many close-ups of the actors' faces and the seemingly introspective focus of the camera. It is also remarkably well-acted in a naturalist manner that adds realism to the allegoric content of the film. Fitting their milieu perfectly, the actors inhabit their characters down to the smallest gesture and replicate their drama without allowing any of them to fall into caricature, a risk that looms large with every parable. Leviathan is many things, but above all, it is utterly and movingly human.
The film is quiet, as it relies on in-camera dialogue which mixes with ambient sounds, like those of rain or waves breaking against rocky shores. No music disturbs the flow of the film, only a pop song from a car or restaurant radio briefly seeps into one scene or the other. No directorial artifices mar the naturalism of the unfolding events, any deeper meaning hidden in a camera pan or a line of dialogue. Zvyagintsev does not force the allegory of his creation onto the audience, allowing them the freedom of reading it as a straightforward drama, if they so wish. This ease betrays the confident hand of an artist, who does not overplay his hand to make a point. Any kind of point. Instead, he makes an offering.
Leviathan has my favorite script of the year, specifically because it works on so many levels. It can viewed as a regular drama, as a Christian parable of both the suffering of the just man and the fallen into temptation of the servants of God, as an incarnation of the timeless historical struggle of the little man crushed by lawless authority. It is a modern retelling of the book of Job, which is amply quoted in the movie. It is a cautionary political fable about corruption and corruptibility. It is a tale of betrayal: personal, of citizens by civil institutions, of Christians by spiritual leaders who side with the temporal power against them. It is about how we are all under God or afraid of being abandoned by Him or about an absentee God. It is tragedy but with specks of hope. Or is it entirely bleak, cold and hostile like Arctic winters? Guilt is also a running theme—collective, individual, moral as well as legal. So is selfishness and the film can be read as an exploration of its extremes and consequences thereof.
Through all this depth of possibilities and interpretations shimmers life-like dialogue and Zvyagintsev's uncanny sense for drama that never strays into melodrama. There is no ominous build-up tailor-made to rack up tension, only hints that seed uncertainty into his confident camera work. He understands that real tragedy is often mute, creeping unnoticed onto its victims and gutting them sometimes with just one knock on the door. It all adds to the intimacy of a film that still feels grand, as, while there might be formal differences, we are all susceptible to betrayals, loss or abuse from authorities, because above all, Leviathan is about being human and about the horrible, horrible things we are prone to do to each other with or without meaning to or simply because we can.
My assessment: masterpiece.
Film details according to imdb.com:
Directed by: Andrey Zvyagintsev
Written by: Oleg Negin & Andrey Zvyagintsev
Cinematography by: Mikhail Krichman
Shot on 35mm