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Film Interpretation
Gosta Berling Saga, Medium Image

The Saga of Gösta Berling, 1924, dir. by Mauritz Stiller

A spiritual being, thrown into the material reality, inevitably becomes traumatized – mutilated.  Similarly to how in China they used to bind little girls’ feet, to conform to the notion that the feet of a fashionably attractive woman must be small (rendering an adult Chinese “beauty queen” practically a disabled woman), or how in Burma, the women of Kayan tribe even in our days still wear brass coils to elongate their necks (the practice that ruins their spines, and distorts the ribcages and collar bones) – so the soul in the material world becomes twisted and suppressed, whether by social environment, genetics, various forms of psychological or psychiatric deviations, and so on – in addition to sloth (material body’s inherent urge for comfort and passiveness).

People come of age in the state of fully formed insanity – and will remain in that state through the rest of their lives. God gives us all we need for happiness – but precisely because of all the traumas and “bends” of the soul, because of the “false notions” or “engrams” that a human being can’t overcome, unless by investing a very significant, fully committed effort in it – or, metaphorically, because of “a pack of wolves” that relentlessly pursues every one of us, or, to see it for what it really is, because of the attacks of the devil who wants our soul – we become incapable of ever setting foot on the path of our true destiny.

One must dedicate one’s life to removal of all deviations and inner problems imposed by the material world – we must actively, fiercely fight to escape the bites of the wolves that chase after us. We must incinerate our former lazy and decadent personality, and then build the new, beautiful true character. If we succeed in this effort, we’ll be able to discover the true path God designed for us – and that is the path of happiness.

That’s why, as soon as Elizabeth has realized that her marriage has been a result of her not being true to herself, God annuls the marriage, and as soon as Gösta Berling has reformed, he finds himself in the divine situation of meeting the perfect woman he was meant to be with, whom he can recognize as such for the first time, and who, thanks to God’s Providence, can now recognize him – with the help of Major’s Wife, who, having overcome some of her own inner obstacles, also presents herself in the right place, at the right time.

Dimitri Vorontzov


Efter repetitionen, dir. by Ingmar Bergman, 1984

I once met a rather well-educated and experienced film critic who told me that in her opinion, Ingmar Bergman’s films of the later period were way too complex to be ever understood by any audience, no matter how sophisticated and intellectually advanced. According to that critic, “Efter repetitionen” (“After the rehearsal”, 1984) served as a perfect proof that the mind of Ingmar Bergman of “the fifth act” had long departed from the ordinary world, and dwelled in his own singular reality that included no reference points to the common human experience. (I never had a chance to ask her what she thought about “In the presence of a Clown”.) Based on the faulty logic of that critic, Bergman’s films after “Fanny and Alexander” (or, perhaps, even after “The Seventh Seal”) could only be admired for their esthetic qualities, but not appreciated for their ethical content.

“Efter repetitionen” was made for TV and is only seventy minutes long, not even reaching the duration that would qualify it as a legitimate “feature film” (according to American Screen Actors Guild) – but it does require considerable work from anyone who wants to understand its idea. Created by an artist of formidable intellect, this film does not descend to a vulgar viewer, but rather demands that the viewer rise to a higher level of awareness. Every detail matters, and things that appear irrelevant, accidental or may even be perceived as continuity mistakes, upon deeper scrutiny reveal their highly condensed metaphorical (that is, spiritual) value. A thorough intellectual examination also reveals, behind the complexity of the verbal lacework of dialogue, a simple, compact and masterfully designed dramatic structure of the kind that would make any student of Robert McKee proud: all characters in this film have clear, well-defined, easy to understand desires that they pursue by taking increasingly strong and risky actions, and the narration is organized through primal, archetypal conflict and the standard three-act structure.

I do not usually re-tell films in my essays – what’s the point of describing in words something that has already been expressed in moving images? – but Ingmar Bergman’s films are exception from all the rules. I find it impossible to explain the meaning of this film without actually retelling it in detail.

*  *  *

The first act begins with an overhead shot of the boards that form the wooden floor of the theater stage. The camera floats down to reveal red ornate carpet that covers the stage, then a volume of August Strindberg’s plays on a work desk, and finally an aging man, the theater director Henrik Vogler, seemingly asleep behind it, resting his head on his work journal. (“Vogler”, in Bergman’s symbolic system, is the last name inevitably assigned to a positive, spiritually enlightened character.) The rough wooden surface of the stage, covered with scrape marks that look like mysterious hieroglyphs, symbolizes the bare bones of the crude material reality; the carpet, the illusory view of that reality formed by our kaleidoscopic perception. The desk that holds Strindberg’s plays and the work journal serves as a metaphor for the artistic profession, the spiritual calling of the main character. Finally, the sleeping man is the hero, a human being plunged into the dream play of living in the material world.

This opening shot is a direct allusion to August Strindberg’s most famous and influential work for stage, “A Dream Play” (1902). Here’s a quote from Strindberg’s introduction to the play:

“Anything may happen; everything is possible and probable. Time and space do not exist. On an insignificant background of reality, imagination designs and embroiders novel patterns: a medley of memories, experiences, free fancies, absurdities and improvisations.


The characters split, double, multiply, vanish, solidify, blur, clarify. But one consciousness reigns above them all – that of the dreamer; and before it there are no secrets, no incongruities, no scruples, no laws. There is neither judgement nor exoneration, but merely narration. And as the dream is mostly painful, rarely pleasant, a note of melancholy and of pity with all living things runs right through the wabbly tale. Sleep, the liberator, plays often a dismal part, but when the pain is at its worst the awakening comes and reconciles the sufferer with reality, which, however distressing it may be, nevertheless seems happy in comparison with the torments of the dream.”

Not lifting his head off the open journal, the old man on the stage fiddles with the desk lamp, turning it now on, now off. The activity may seem meaningless, and yet within Bergman’s economical aesthetics the primitive pulse of the desk lamp instantly acquires powerful dramatic significance. On / Off. Light / Dark. Good / Evil. Love / Hatred. Life/ Death. Being / Non-being. Time / Eternity. Body / Soul. Material / Ideal. The most fundamental conflict is expressed visually through this basic motion. This is cinema in its purest form.

Henrik Vogler, the film’s hero, has decided to stay on the empty stage of his theater after the daytime rehearsal of “A Dream Play”. After he wakes up, his voiceover monologue reveals immediately that we are already beyond the limits of the mundane: “I may have dozed off, I’m not quite sure. I look around and can’t recognize anything. Something has changed in a strange, inexplicable way.” The action of the film, as it always happens in Ingmar Bergman’s works, blurs the borders of material and the otherworldly, and the audience may never be sure whether what they see onscreen happens in reality, beyond it, or in hero’s mind.

The director doesn’t waste time on preambles. Exactly a minute and sixteen seconds into the film, the antagonist appears: Anna Egerman, young lead actress in Vogler’s current production of “A Dream Play”. Anna is dressed in all red: the color of passion, sexuality, pain and aggression; the color of the STOP sign on the road. Having recognized her talent for acting, Henrik Vogler chose her to for the part of Indra’s Daughter, the divine presence in the diabolic world of the play, and yet, out of her stage persona, in Henrik Vogler’s reality, Anna is the devil. She is creative, but creativity doesn’t imply spirituality. Her first close-up is that of a predator hunting for prey. Very characteristically, Henrik Vogler becomes aware of Anna Egerman’s presence before the audience can even hear her footsteps: he is suddenly alert, like a wild animal that has sensed a predator nearby. (“Egerman” in Bergman’s films is almost always the last name of an aggressive, often sociopathic character who may be experiencing deep inner torment, but whose main agenda is to cause suffering to others.)

A medium full shot reveals a mask of a demonic creature with antlers near the wall, behind Anna’s back. It seems as if the mask is watching over Anna’s subsequent actions, or maybe even dictating them.

Their first briefest exchange of lines between – “Hi!” – “Hi!” – is followed by a grotesquely comical shot: Anna Egerman turns away from Henrik Vogler who is looking at her, and bends forward, offering him the view of her buttocks. Anna justifies this behavior with the pretense of looking for a lost bracelet. This is the first of a very few wide shots in the film, revealing in the background a humongous headless, armless gray statue of Venus, the monster goddess of the material world, symbolizing raw, impersonal lust. The statue dominates the tiny characters on stage, and seems almost alive – and yet its asphalt-gray color gives it eery resemblance to a decapitated, dismembered corpse.

Anna’s presence makes Henrik suffer from the acute sense of alienation. His inner monologue, superimposed over their dialogue: “Distance and torture. Distance and torment. Distance and the sharp taste of iron in my mouth. I want her to leave.”

Henrik responds to Anna’s sexual teasing by reminding her casually that he’s old enough to be her father: “How old are you anyway, Anna Egerman?” – “Guess!” – “You’re the same age as my youngest daughter. Your father and I were making a film together, and each of us was blessed with a daughter, a week apart.”

Anna parries Henrik’s defense, attacking him with guilt: “You and Papa used to have fun back then […] Papa was always gone and Mama was always sad […] You were in love with Mama then. Did you have an affair?” Henrik denies the affair, probably untruthfully.

Anna’s dramatic throughline is not obvious at the beginning: Bergman will reveal it only in the third act; however, Anna is active in pursuing her hidden goals. It is also important for recognizing Anna as he antagonist of the story to notice that Anna is embittered and motivated by hatred: she tells Henrik that having to repress her hatred toward her mother used to cause her anguish, but now that the mother is dead for five years, Anna hates her and feels better. (While she is saying that, the gray statue of the naked Venus reflects in the tall mirror behind Anna’s back.)

The fact that Henrik and Anna are opposites is introduced in the most fundamental way when she expresses her materialist philosophy: “Where she [Anna’s mother] is now she can hardly be concerned about that [Anna’s hatred] anymore. (Laughs).” – to which statement Henrik responds as idealist: “(Sternly). That’s a great question, of course”. Anna immediately tries to catch Henrik at inconsistency, reminding him of his old interview in which he mentioned that he didn’t believe in the afterlife (looking for inconsistencies in the philosophical position of the opponent who professes idealism is almost an automatic default reaction for any self-respecting materialist.) Henrik disarms Anna by giving her a compliment: “You are certainly a girl with a gift for irony.”

And so it continues throughout the short first act – and subsequently throughout the film: attack – defense – stronger attack – evasion – even stronger attack. Anna provokes. Henrik de-escalates. Anna tries to hurt. Henrik responds to hatred with love. It’s almost like a martial arts movie featuring a very aggressive young villainess and the old, wise (even though imperfect) kung fu master – except the two opponents fight without fighting. Quite in accordance with Yin / Yang principle, the master’s imperfection holds the seeds to his probable ruin and the aggressor’s arrogance is self-destructive. Yet everything is extremely subtle, almost minimalist. The dialogue between Henrik and Anna is almost always cordial and polite. All the conflict occurs in the subtext.

Henrik overtakes the initiative and tries to make Anna aware of the mystical nature of the stage that connects the tangible and the invisible. Henrik’s idealism is emphasized by blocking (he turns his back toward the statue of Venus) and is clearly expressed in his monologue (“I’m going to tell you something, Anna Egerman. Here’s what happens in my age. Just lean forward, and suddenly you find your head plunged into another dimension! The dead are not dead, the living behave like ghosts. […] Sometimes I hear them – often I hear them – sometimes I think I see them…”) (This monologue foreshadows the appearance of Rakel Egerman’s ghost in the second act of the film.) Anna parries his monologue with a silent ironic smile. Henrik calls Anna out on it (a theater decoration representing a temple is visible behind him), then invades her private space, and accuses her face to face of the intention of hurting her mother even beyond the grave. Anna doesn’t back off, and admits having that intention. Henrik reproaches her for acting a role in a play of her own making, breaks the distance, roots himself firmly at his desk, and pretends to block Anna out completely from his mind. Wide shot: the Venus statue is partially hidden behind a screen panel. Anna lights a cigarette. Henrik opens his notes and begins to read.

Anna re-engages, hoping for Henrik’s reassurance: “Why did you want me to play Indra’s Daughter?” Henrik responds with truth: “Because you’re talented”, etc. Henrik opens up, makes himself vulnerable to Anna, and reminisces about his earliest experience of theater that coincided with his first experience of “A Dream Play”. Anna listens, using that time to recuperate for further battle, supported by the reflection of the Venus statue behind her. Henrik leads the dialog toward professional subjects, turning it from a verbal fight to a practical lesson in theatrical craft. He performs the Lawyer’s hairpin monologue (the famous episode from “A Dream Play” that metaphorically expresses the subject of alienation between the two human beings that are supposed to be the closest). Anna provokes Henrik to make a fool of himself and deliver a passionately self-deprecating tirade of a “perfectionist artist”. Henrik catches himself, as expressed in his inner monologue superimposed over his words addressed to Anna: “Why am I saying all these things? They are nonsense. Old clichés. Why am I acting out this mockery of conviction?” Henrik defends himself again with his strongest weapon: his profession. He succeeds in channeling his conflict with Anna into a creative discussion. Anna challenges Henrik’s authority as a director by questioning his belief in her as an actress, and the validity of his creative methods. Henrick reinforces his authority: he tells Anna off, and demands that she “gets rid of the private actress” in herself. Infuriated by her arrogance, he storms out from the stage, on his way to a hotel, to get some sleep before the evening rehearsal. Anna is enraged: “Sleep well!” (subtext: “Burn in hell!”)

Just before Henrik is gone for good, Anna re-engages: “So you think I’m acting in my private life?” Henrik allows himself to be re-engaged, getting caught in a trap of a creative task. He storms back to the stage and towers over Anna. Backstage, behind him, there’s a statue of the angry old man with a white beard, wearing a gray coat, bearing strong resemblance to Henrick – and a statue of naked Cupid blowing a trumpet in the old man’s ear. Anna tries to rationalize her private playacting, and counterattacks, questioning Henrik’s own sincerity. Henrik shields himself with his profession, as before.

Anna pretends to temporarily accept the rules imposed by Henrik, and demands his advice on acting. Henrik provides the advice. Anna puts on the mask of Indra’s Daughter, tries out Henrik’s advice, and finds it helpful. Watching the contrast between Anna as an actress and Anna as a human being, Henrik is suddenly drained of energy. It’s a terrifying paradox that Anna is such a perfect actress that she gives every impression of high spirituality, while being a devil. Anna ignores Henrik and scribbles in her notebook. Henrik watches Anna secretly: her neck, her hair, her hands. At this moment he reminds a schoolboy staring at a girl he has a secret crush on. Anna demands more advice. Henrik obliges. Anna suddenly attacks him with “professional guilt”, accusing Henrik of having victimized actors in the past. Henrik blocks guilt with maturity: “There are many people who bear the scars of my reckless drive, just as I bear the marks of the actions of others.” – and with love: “I love the actors, and so I can never hurt them”. Anna is about to light another cigarette. Henrik asks her not to smoke all the time. Anna complies.

The conflict is lifted, and it looks like Anna is about to leave, but Henrik stops her (close-up shot of Henrik’s hand on Anna’s forearm emphasizes Henrik’s choice to keep Anna from walking away). He calls out her bluff: he knows she wasn’t wearing any bracelet today. Anna feigns innocence and sits down away from him. Henrik “plays with fire”, beckoning Anna to sit next to him on the sofa. His gesture is emphasized by a zoom to a close-up on his hand, more dynamic and therefore more dramatic than the previous similar shot. For a brief period of time, Henrik and Anna are friends. They flirt a little. The chemistry is palpable. Henrik allows himself to pose for Anna a little. Anna gives him the admiration he expects.

After that Anna provides the transition to the Act 2, by reigniting her hatred to her mother, and for a moment even embodying her mother when she quotes her saying: “This is my only means of expression, have no other, whether real or unreal. I suffer, I’m alone, try to understand that.”

Enter the ghost (or a memory) of Anna’s mother, Rakel Egerman, the way she was eleven years ago, when Henrik worked on his previous production of “A Dream Play”.

The second act is a variation to the theme of the first act. As was the case in the first act when Anna first appears, Henrik now suffers from the acute sense of alienation in Rakel’s presence: “Distance and indifference. Suffering. Fear. Helplessness. Helpless outrage. Distance. Distance.” As in the first act, the two active characters often seem nice and caring on the outside, but the deadly combat between them rages in the subtext. The 12-year-old Anna is silently present.

Rakel is a fearsome opponent, not to be trifled with, and gives the impression of being a lot more skillful and aggressive fighter than her daughter will be eleven years later. Rakel starts out by untying her high boots and demanding sex, and then proceeds to unleash a quick series of attacks: she mocks, taunts, titillates, hypnotizes, blackmails and threatens Henrik before he even has a chance to respond in anything but monosyllables. Contrary to how it is with Henrik and Anna in the first act, in the second there’s not a trace of chemistry or attraction between Henrik and Rakel. The mirror that reflected the statue of Venus in the first act is replaced with a fake theatrical mirror that doesn’t have the ability to reflect anything. Rakel’s soul is completely fogged, she is the embodiment of subjectivism.

Rakel demands a bigger, more important role in the production of “A Dream Play” than the tiny role of Edith’s Mother Henrik selected her for. Henrik tries to reason with Rakel. Matching her daughter’s behavior in the first act, Rakel lights a cigarette. She uses gilt and then theatrical tears to incite Henrik, who just laughs: he’d seen it all before. However, he’s not quite impervious to those tears: he stands up from his desk, walks past the silent 23-year-old Anna, and comforts Rakel.

A brief truce. Henrik asks Rakel about her husband Mikael. Rakel speaks of Mikael with contempt. Henrik enquires about little Anna. Rakel insinuates that Anna may be Henrik’s daughter, and tortures Henrik, describing monstrous relationships in her family where Anna is growing up. Rakel hates Anna probably even more than Anna hates Rakel. Henrik is compassionate: “Poor Rakel”. Rakel is passive-aggressive: “People can do what they like with me, isn’t that so?” She applies a little reverse psychology: “Can you see that my upper teeth are coming loose? […] I’m rotting, bit by bit.” Instead of denying the truth of that statement, as Rakel has probably expected, Henrik confirms it. She bates him with the pleasant memories they share together, and then tries to seduce Henrik again, exposing her thighs and her breasts to him. She scoffs, sneers and derides Henrik some more. Then she bursts out sobbing and stares into the mirror that reflects nothing.

Henrik plays the shrink. Rakel complaints. Rakel opens up. Rakel invites Henrik to come to her place. Henrik makes up an excuse not to: he’s waiting for someone. To make Henrik jealous, Rakel mentions that she’s having an affair with her doctor, whom she hates and despises even more than her husband. Rakel paces up and down the stage, and suddenly tousles Henrik’s hair in a way that makes her momentarily seem like one of the Bosch’s demons. Little Anna is listening and watching… learning, perhaps. Henrik tries to reason with Rakel, who ignores him and admires her own act in a real, non-theatrical mirror. She makes herself repulsive. She demands bigger roles in theater. She threatens to commit suicide. She laughs hysterically. A true cornucopia of negative emotions, she pours them liberally into Henrik’s mind. She explodes in a paranoid rant, accusing Henrik of contributing to the conspiracy of evil men who try to destroy her.

To add to the overall sense of pandemonium, Anna begins to “flicker” between being twelve and twenty three.

Henrik tries hard to remain calm and ironic, but eventually fails. Entangled in Rakel’s emotional net, he snatches the volume of Strindberg’s plays from Rakel who has been clutching it; he barely stops himself from hitting her with the book. Henrik descends to Rakel’s moral level and accuses her of being the unfaithful and abusive lover in the past.

Rakel presses her advantage and demands sex yet again. Mirroring Anna of the first act, Rakel recites the Dionysus monologue from The Bacchae by Euripidis, saturating it with over-the-top frenzy. She greedily lights a cigarette and smokes it with smug, complacent mien, impressed with her own performance. She mocks Henrik for not being able to deal with the unpredictable.

Henrick responds with the monologue that contains the key to the entire film: “I administrate, communicate, organize […] I don’t take part in the drama, I materialize it. I despise the spontaneous, the unconsidered, the imprecise. […] I hate tumult, aggression, outbursts […] I am not private, I observe, regulate, control. […] I am not spontaneous, impulsive, part of the action. It only looks that way…” This monologue is so revealing that I prefer to postpone the discussion of its meaning till a little later.

Rakel ignores the sincerity of Henrik’s monologue and celebrates her moral victory over him. She is dominant, and he is oddly diminished. Rakel lapses into histrionics, breaks down, and cries. She does her best to generate maximum repulsion: “I stink like a rotten fish, some fluid is oozing from my skin that smells like carrion. […] I breathe decay…” She demands that Henrik directs a new version of Molière’s Tartuffe, just for her. Henrik calmly rejects this intrusion in his creative plans. Rakel blackmails him yet again. Henrik, softened considerably by the preceding emotional roller-coaster, hugs and consoles her: “There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think of you. Every night before my sleeping pill knocks me out, I think of you. You are always in my thoughts. That’s the way it is, Rakel.”

Henrik tells Rakel to go gome; he will come to her place in an hour. Maybe he is saying the truth. More likely, it’s a lie that Henrik resorts to, as the only way to get rid of Rakel. He kisses her and orders her to leave. Rakel walks off backstage and literally vanishes, as if having fallen through a trapdoor.

A moment later, Henrik calls Rakel – and then runs backstage after her. His mental shield broken, Henrik yields to Rakel’s emotional manipulation: “The same old story, I always run after her. And then lies and useless reconciliations. Shame, fear, and curses that I try to suppress. And pity. It’s always like this.” The petrified archaic Etruscan theater mask doubling as a shade for the backstage light on the wall, expresses a complex emotional state of bewilderment mixed with fear, and marks the border between the second and third acts.

Henrik returns to the stage, and reveals the inner nature of his attitude to Anna: gently, with great love and compassion he leans to touch the head of the twelve-year-old Anna with his cheek, and caresses her face. Little Anna sits with her eyes closed, as if in a deep sleep, symbolizing the state of a human being who hadn’t reached spiritual awareness. Henrik’s gesture reflects the famous recurrent line from “A Dream Play”: “Poor, poor people!”

Henrik reaches out to hold Anna’s hand with sympathy. The third, final act of the film begins. Anna admits that she often acts like a child, for her age. Henrik directs the dialogue toward professional subjects, pointing out that childishness is typical for people who work in theater.

By now it’s become clear that Henrik’s through-line has something to do with remaining strictly professional towards Anna. Over and over again he made effort to eschew the personal and stick with his duty as a director. This topic is recurrent in his speech, all through the film.

Anna redirects the conversation back to personal: “When I’m in the grip of passion, I’m not aware at all.” Henrick supports the topic – he is not a prude – but at the same time moves away from Anna.

Anna tells Henrik she’s in love with him. Henrik isn’t particularly impressed, but confesses to Anna that he has a weakness for her, too, and then switches to his professional self again: “I am happy that we have at least five weeks before us, that you are tied to me professionally and therefore emotionally.” Henrik is sincere enough to admit that he’s jealous of Johan, Anna’s boyfriend. Having admitted his jealousy, Henrik finally handed Anna the weapon she needed.

Anna doesn’t hesitate to deliver the double blow: personal and professional. She is three months pregnant. Having said this, Anna succeeds in forcing Henrik into a fit of uncontrollable frustration and rage: by the date of the premiere Anna will be five month along in her pregnancy, and because of that, the performance of Henrik’s new version of the play will be short-lived. Henrik recovers his temper almost immediately and becomes professional again: “To direct you as Agnes in “A Dream Play” is fun. That the production will be closed after two weeks makes it even more fun.” Anna offers to have an abortion. Henrik forbids her to do that: “Not for the theater. It’s not worth it.”

Anna threatens to give up the part. Henrik throws a tantrum worthy of a 2-year-old: “I don’t want anyone else!” Then he begs her: “Anna… I don’t want you to give up the role.”

Anna tightens the emotional thumbscrews some more: “There won’t be any child” – “Have you already had an abortion?” – “Last week. […] I want to play the role.” Now Henrik begins to realize just how dangerous she is: “Why did you tell me about the child?” Anna enjoys her power: “No idea. It just occurred to me. […] I wanted to see you lose your face. […] And you did.”

Certain now that Henrik had been sufficiently “softened up”, Anna escalates the attack: “Now I’m going to wipe away the sad face”. She kisses Henrik on the mouth.

His self-defense almost completely neutralized, Henrik tries to make Anna leave: “You’re a lot like your mother.” – “If you say it one more time – I’m leaving.” – “You are indeed a lot like your mother.”

Anna stays and throws in a little more jealousy and guilt: “Johan admires you. […] He was the once who convinced me to have an abortion. […] I wanted the baby even though it wasn’t Johan’s […] but he convinced me. So now here I am. In your hands.”

It’s at this moment that Henrik loses the battle: “And I’m in yours.”

Henrik confesses that he is lonely. Henrik tries to be professional again: a desperate, helpless last attempt at defending himself against Anna’s relentless seduction. Henrik reminds her that he is old. Henrik paces nervously up and down the stage, while Anna, quite relaxed, sits on a sofa dominantly like a queen. Henrik accuses her of being manipulative. He is a bad loser. The backstage behind Henrik and Anna has been magically transformed into set of decorations representing the interior of an apartment, making he interaction between Henrik and Anna look almost like a bad family scene.

Anna presses her advantage: “Put your hand on my breast.”

Henrik resists feebly. Anna embraces him.

Henrik admits defeat. Anna is victorious. It is over.

And then all of a sudden Henrik reveals the full extent of his true skills as a mental fighter. He puts his arm around Anna’s shoulders and walks with her across the stage. As they walk, Henrik engages Anna in the fantasy of how their love affair is going to progress. Using his powers as a director, Henrik succeeds at igniting Anna’s imagination. The theatrical set behind them is transformed again: this time it’s a backdrop representing city street. Facing each other, seated on two closely drawn chairs,  Anna and Henrik seem like two lovers out on a date in a street cafe in an illusory city. Anna eagerly accepts the game, celebrating her psychological victory over Henrik. What Anna doesn’t realize is that Henrik, having her best interests in mind, “hides the blade behind the smile” and “yields to win”. He starts with a poignant romantic story, and invites Anna to join and to contribute her ideas. Anna does, with great enthusiasm. Gradually Henrik adds elements of crude reality to the idyll – more and more of them, until they merge together and form entirely different picture. Henrik destroys the daydream from the inside, deliberately undermining one by one every romantic notion Anna may cherish about their possible mutual sensual involvement, and about Henrik as a potential lover. He renders himself erotically unappealing, even repulsive. Leaving no “t” uncrossed, he carefully and meticulously stomps out every bit of attraction Anna may have felt toward him. He turns Anna’s own acting talent against her. He directs her emotions: triggers her anger and provokes her jealousy. Anna tries to resist, to bring in some positive emotions, but it’s too late: she is entrapped and manipulated, controlled  like a puppet by Henrik, who molds her mind like soft clay. What started as a beautiful love story turns into a boring “roll in a sack” and a grotesque “dance of death”. Anna helps Henrik to finish off their failed romance.

The illusion of poetry is gone. The decorations vanished, and only the barren brick walls of the backstage remain. All windows that would have been open to the world are boarded, and just one window high above remains open, and through that window bright white light pours inside. There’s no statue of headless, armless gray Venus anywhere.

The demon is vanquished. Hastily, Anna wraps up her conversation with Henrik and dashes away to a rehearsal for the radio she’s completely forgotten about (probably in the same way as she earlier had lost her bracelet) – but not before having secured Henrik’s permission to mention being held up by him as an excuse for arriving to the radio rehearsal too late. Henrik remains onstage alone, and his only worry is not being able to hear the distant church bells (they symbolize the sounds of the great Beyond, where all inspiration and enlightenment come from). Henrik’s liberation is complete, but it has been achieved not without loss.

*  *  *

To see  the dramatic structure of the film a little more clearly, let’s take a look at a brief outline of all three acts.

First Act.

Theater director Henrik Vogler is alone on the empty stage after the rehearsal of “A Dream Play”. Young actress Anna Egerman, chosen to play the lead role, enters the stage and tries to stir Henrik’s emotions, using sexual teasing, guilt and aggression. Henrik resists Anna’s attacks (not quite successfully), trying – and somewhat failing – to remain professional towards her. Eventually Henrik manages to subdue the most acute conflict, but allows himself to flirt with Anna, who is young enough to be his daughter. The grey headless, armless statue of Venus dominates the background, symbolizing the power of raw sexuality.

Second Act.

The ghost of Rakel Egerman, Anna’s late mother, appears in a flashback of an event that may have taken place eleven years ago. Rakel, a failed actress and an alcoholic, who used to be a stage star in the past, repeatedly demands sex and career promotion from Henrik. She applies heavy doses of emotional manipulation, trying to provoke Henrik’s lust, compassion, repulsion and guilt, in a quick succession. Henrik remains calm and professional at first, but eventually fails to protect himself, and becomes vulnerable to Rakel’s emotional blackmail. He admits Rakel’s prominent role in his life, and runs after Rakel after she exists the stage. Anna Egerman (as a twelve-year-old girl or as a twenty-three-year old woman) is silently present onstage throughout Henrik’s interaction with Rakel.

Third Act.

Anna unleashes a series of emotional attacks: she tells Henrik she’s in love with him, confesses being three months pregnant by her boyfriend, then admits having made an abortion and finally makes sexual passes on Henrik. Jealous and angry at first, Henrik finally gives in to Anna’s seduction. But just when it seems that Anna has won, Henrik performs the act of emotional exorcism, frees himself from Anna’s influence and makes her leave.

* * *

It’s quite clear from the above outline that Anna and Rakel, despite their apparent mutual hatred, share the same dramatic throughline – and that Henrik’s throughline is the opposite of theirs. We can understand what’s going on between them if we remember Henrik’s monologue addressed to Rakel in the middle of the second act: “I administrate, communicate, organize... etc. (see above).  It’s Henrik’s professional duty as a director to be able to influence the emotions of his actors, without ever being emotionally influenced by them. Being an artist gives true meaning to Henrik’s life, and that’s why he strives to fulfill his calling in every aspect of his existence. Therefore, Henrik’s goal throughout the film is: “to not allow himself to get entangled in any emotional nets, and to protect his spirituality”. Obviously, Anna and Rakel pursue the opposite goal: “to get Henrik involved in their turmoil, and by doing so, to achieve moral superiority over him and to destroy his spirituality”. Being set on achieving that goal is what makes Anna a demonic presence in Henrik’s life. She may not even be conscious of her intentions, but an unaware, even reluctant devil is the devil all the same.

Seen in this perspective, the nature of Anna’s actions is identical to that of the attempt made by Nurse Alma in Bergman’s “Persona” (1966) to make Elizabeth Vogler speak by threatening her with boiling water. It’s the old familiar pattern of a materialist trying to prove an idealist wrong by the threat of physical or emotional pain.

In many ways, “After the Rehearsal” is also reminiscent of the legend of Tibetan poet–saint Milarepa and the demoness Draug Srin Mo. Milarepa is assaulted by the arrogant demoness, but his adherence to principles of Buddhism disarm her.

Anna is a very dangerous opponent, but Henrik had seen it all before. If he were younger or less savvy, he may have been easily lured into Anna’s emotional trap. That would probably lead to his ruin, or at least to a considerable loss of time and spiritual energy. Henrik is human, so he is not entirely impervious to Anna’s attacks even now. But Henrik is old and wise. He reached that point where, no matter how strong and sweet the temptations may be, he realizes that they are just not worth it; his former relationships had taught him that much. So, in a way, the situation with Rakel eleven years ago, when Henrik wasn’t strong enough to not get involved, served as a rehearsal for a dangerous scene acted out by Anna today.

On a larger scale, Henrik’s entire life up till now may be interpreted as such rehearsal, but now that “the rehearsal” (the period of emotional and spiritual immaturity, trial and error) is over, the “evening performance” (the fruitful, mature period of the artist’s life) has come to replace it. This glorious time requires greater responsibility and greater dignity, and gives us strength to uphold our professional and spiritual integrity against threats and temptations.

Dimitri Vorontzov



Scarlet Street, dir. by Fritz Lang, 1945

Every aspect of a truly artistic film (or a work of art in any medium) should in some way contribute to the key idea expressed in it. The title is no exception. An ideal title should serve as a metaphor for such idea and be constructed in a way that – a) doesn’t reveal the idea before the climax; and – b) provides the meaningful additional bit of metaphorical meaning that deepens the audience’s understanding of the idea as expressed in the climax.

Seen in this perspective, the phrase “scarlet street” doesn’t refer to any actual geographic location in the film, but rather should be interpreted as a metaphor. The word “scarlet” may be interpreted as the color of blood – or, in its more archaic sense – as “wicked”, “heinous”, “immoral” or “unchaste”. The word “street” of the title may of course refer to the final condition of the main character of the story (who ends up being homeless, that is, becomes a “street person”) – but it can also be interpreted in its traditional meaning, “the public road”. The combination of the two words, therefore, is likely to signify something like the “heinous road”, “road of shame” or the “path to hell”.

(Curiously, a similarly constructed metaphor was used as a title for another classic film that is also usually attributed to the film noir genre: 1950s “Sunset Boulevard” – this title can be interpreted as “road to darkness”.)

But let’s get back to the message of “Scarlet Street” now. It should become obvious after we analyze the behavior of its key characters.

The main character of the film, Christopher Cross, has spent the last 25 years in the state of wasteland: working as a cashier in a bank and barely allowing himself to indulge in his passion to painting as an after-hours hobby. He lives with the woman he hates, whom he had married just because he couldn’t stand the loneliness.  One night he attacks a thug who’s beating up a street-walker, and ends up going out on a date with the woman he’s just saved. Despite all the signs, he refuses to acknowledge Kitty’s profession and prefers to think that she’s an actress who just happened to be returning home from an evening performance. She, in turn, although having instantly identified Christopher as a bank clerk, prefers to ignore it, and manages to convince herself that the aging man she picked up is not only a professional artist, but a rich and successful one, too. This self-deception is so strong that Kitty manages to convince Johnny Prince, her amateur pimp, that they can prosper by shaking down some of the dough from that “rich artist”.

Being a small-time crook, Johnny flatters himself with the idea that one day he may go to Hollywood and become a film star. Kitty is so sure that she is in love with Johnny and that Johnny loves her back and will one day marry her, that she ignores not only the ample evidence that Johnny just uses her to get money for his gambling, but also the fact that Johnny beats her up at every opportunity. Christopher, having met Johnny in the new apartment he rented for Kitty, recognizes him as the street thug who was beating Kitty up, but refuses to believe his eyes, and prefers to trust Kitty’s words that Johnny is her former roommate’s boyfriend.

After Johnny sells Christopher’s paintings to a street dauber (who, incidentally, imagines himself as a true artist and a “master of perspective”) – a famous art critic comes to visit the person who painted these great artworks. The critic mistrusts Johnny, who informs him that Kitty painted all the pictures – but after speaking with Kitty for a few minutes, fools himself into thinking that it is indeed true.

To provide for Kitty, Christopher has to embezzle money from the bank where he works. The bank owner, J.J.Hogarth, nearly catches Christopher red-handed, but chooses to ignore the obvious signs, and just drums his fingers on the envelope containing the stolen cash.

When Christopher finds out that Kitty sold his paintings as her own, he, blinded by his desire for Kitty, paints more artworks and allows her to sign them. He is so certain that she is in love with him, too, that he never even asks himself how such attractive young woman could fall for the aging, ugly, ordinary guy like him.

Missis Cross’s ex-cop ex-husband, long thought dead, reappears and allows himself to be persuaded, against every bit of common sense, that he can get his hands on the insurance cash hidden in his wife’s drawer. This sets Christopher free, and he arrives to Kitty’s place, only to catch her with Johnny and to face the truth he long refused to acknowledge: that Johnny and Kitty are lovers. When Kitty exacerbates that realization by teasing him, Christopher kills Kitty with ice-pick and later frames Johnny, who is sent to electric chair for the murder he didn’t commit. As a trade-off, Christiopher has to give up painting, because any artwork he may produce from now on can implicate him in the crime.

Christopher ends up homeless and insane, tormented by the ghosts of Kitty and Johnny, and watching wistfully how his (Kitty’s) paintings are sold for huge money to people who delude themselves into thinking that they can appreciate art.

At the end Christopher is sunk in a much deeper wasteland than the one he was in at the beginning of the story.

Denial (and active self-deception) lead to subjectivism (insanity) and to meaningless, de-actualized existence. Denial is such a widespread phenomenon, that it requires a great deal of effort to recognize elements of denial in our own attitudes, but it’s necessary because only after removing the denial we can begin to take steps toward meaningful life.

Dimitri Vorontzov


The Woman In The Window, Large Image

The Woman in the Window, 1944

Many film connoisseurs mistakenly qualify “The Woman in the Window” as “minor Fritz Lang”, considering it more mainstream, less original and less art-like compared to Lang’s earlier “Der Müde Tod” (1921), “Dr. Mabuse, der Spieler” (1922), “Die Nibelungen” (1924), “Metropolis” (1927) and “M” (1931). Even critics who acknowledge the importance of “The Woman in the Window” in Lang’s oeuvre and in film history, mainly stress its value as the precursor of film noir genre, rather than the artistic merits of the film itself. In my opinion, “The Woman in the Window” is deeper film than other Fritz Lang films I mentioned above, and it shows the director’s greater maturity as an artist; I hope to prove it in this article.

Viewers usually see this film as a sort of morality tale illustrating dangers of being lured into a sexual trap set by a femme fatale, and the common notion of a single misstep having far-reaching consequences – but such interpretations are not entirely correct. First of all, Alice Reed (played by Joan Bennett), isn’t a typical femme fatale, but rather a victim type: she is not consciously trying to destroy Assistant Professor Richard Wanley (Edward G. Robinson in one of his less aggressive roles), and isn’t even trying to manipulate him into submission or to take advantage of him in any way (aside from relieving her boredom by practicing her charms on a funny middle-aged man); she is in trouble no less than the lead character. Secondly, even though the “single misstep” theme is present in the film, it’s not the key subject matter here, but rather a form-building technique that gives this story certain similarities with such literary structures as “The Monk” by Matthew Gregory Lewis (published in 1796), and “Das Schloß” by Franz Kafka (published in 1926).

I believe that the true theme of “The Woman in the Window” is the philosophical dichotomy between determinism and free will. The film asks whether all events of our existence are bound by the rigid cause-and-effect structure, or we can freely choose things that befall us – and, if the latter is true, what should be the basis for our choice and how we can make it.

The ancient intellectual conflict of strict causality versus free will isn’t likely to ever be resolved. From deterministic point of view, everything – including our thoughts, actions and decisions – is caused by preceding events, and what we see as “free will” is nothing but our ignorance of the “big picture” of the complex and nearly infinite network of causes. The proponents of the free will, on the other hand, state that there are events even in physical universe that are not connected by any cause-and-effect relationship, and therefore, a conscious mind is free to make a choice that is not dictated by any prior occurrence. Till the late XIX century science seemed to favor determinist point of view, but the most current trend, started by Josiah Willard Gibbs, is to see physical reality in terms of statistical probability and chance rather than strict causality. Philosophers has differed in their opinions through the ages, and offered powerful reasoning in support of determinism and free will, as well as many equally weighty arguments in refutation of both concepts. Ultimately, no measurement can be absolute, no result of mathematical calculation can be confirmed with complete certainty, no physical law can be fully tested and proven – and no philosophical position can be asserted as the truth. It all comes down to individual faith and the personal choice (either predetermined or freely made). First we gain faith in a certain concept for certain combination of reasons, and then we seek best arguments to support our faith. For example, I support the concept of positive reasonable doubt in the matters of idealism versus materialism: I cannot be sure that the material universe is the only true reality, and recognize many things as evidence of higher, spiritual level of being – so I must apply the concept of reasonable doubt and choose idealism as the truth (see “12 Angry Men”, dir. by Sidney Lumet, 1957).

But let’s get back to “The Woman in the Window”. Its dramatic structure contains not one, but several progressive missteps by the lead character.

1. Richard Wanley stops to admire the portrait of the unknown woman in a gallery window. This seems the most innocent misstep, but actually the crucial one. It’s his attraction to the painting that makes the character of Alice Reed materialize. He should have just walked by, which would have been the easiest thing to do – but he doesn’t.

2. Alice Reed appears out of thin air and accosts Richard Wanley, striking up a flirtatious conversation with him. He should have apologized and left, instead of supporting the conversation, and that, too, would have been relatively easy – but he  hasn’t.

3. Alice Reed invites Richard Wanley for “just one drink” in a nearby bar. He agrees, even though he should have said no, which still wouldn’t require a lot of willpower.

4. She invites him “to look at some sketches” at her house. After showing feeble resistance (giving her a list of things that he shouldn’t have done by now), Richard agrees. His willpower, somewhat diminished by alcohol, isn’t sufficient to overcome this new temptation (still relatively minor, but stronger than the previous ones).

5.  At Alice’s place, after showing Richard the sketches, she offers him another drink. It’s the last chance for Richard to escape the quagmire, but as Alice says, “this is much too pleasant to break up”. Richard hurts his finger while trying to open a bottle of champagne (the foreshadowing of the approaching suffering), but this forceful reminder is just not enough to sober him up.

6. A grotesque “force majeure” is introduced, in the form of the jealous millionaire Claude Mazard who storms in and proceeds to strangle Richard. Fighting for his life, Richard stabs his attacker with scissors and kills him. The choice is thus elevated to a new level: to report the murder to the police or to hide the body. There’s more at stake this time: if Richard calls the police, he may lose his job and probably be separated from his family; if he doesn’t call and is later found out, he will face a trial, a prison term or even death penalty. It’s clear that the correct choice would be to confess, but Richard chooses to hide the body of the murdered man instead. During the following several interactions with his friend, the District Attorney investigating the case of the missing millionaire, Richard blurts out several clues that may very well implicate him in the future. (Why he does that will become clear in a couple of paragraphs.)

7. Heidt, the blackmailer, appears and demands five thousand dollars. Richard Wanley defines the choice at this point as threefold: “You can pay him and pay him and pay him until you’re penniless. Or, you can call the police yourself and let your secret be known to the world. Or… you can kill him.” The fact that Richard by that time has already made the choice to kill the blackmailer, and the way he says it, shows that the pressure of circumstances has precipitated his inner corruption, transforming him imperceptibly from an innocent, diffident academician in peril to a violent, cynical predator. (This introduces the very important part of the subject matter: series of wrong choices that we may make are dangerous not so much because they put our social and physical survival at risk, but mainly because they can imperceptibly transform our psyche, turning us into our own evil twins. Such inner transformation is impossible to self-diagnose, because in our subjectivity we’re bound to perceive ourselves as unchanged and basically good, no matter how corrupt we my have become.)

8. The plot to kill the blackmailer fails and backfires: he demands more money. Drained of willpower, confused about his choices and unable to face the responsibility for his mistakes, Richard falls into abject despair and commits suicide.

This outcome reveals theretofore hidden true nature of the key motivation behind Richard’s actions: Freudian “Todestrieb” (death drive), the desire of any organic life to return to the inanimate state – the secret dark side of the “pleasure principle”, Thanatos behind the mask of Eros. (Evidently, having embraced the American commercial cinema style, Fritz Lang however never really severed his German Expressionist roots.)

The structure of the story very well illustrates the idea that tiny, seemingly insignificant choices we face every day should be treated very seriously, as they are often more important than they seem. It’s a lot easier to make a correct small choice in a situation where not much is at stake and very little energy is needed, than to face a huge quandary, selecting lesser of two evils. To quote from Chapter 64 of Tao Te Ching:

What remains still is easy to hold.
What is not yet manifest is easy to plan for.
What is brittle is easy to crack.
What is minute is easy to scatter.
Deal with things before they appear.
Put things in order before disorder arises.
A tree as big as a man’s embrace grows from a tiny shoot.
A tower of nine stories begins with a heap of earth.
The journey of a thousand li starts from where one stands.

Even though I must accede that “it-was-all-just-a-dream” ending of the film is probably not much of a surprise (it was added after the suicide sequence mainly to make “The Woman in the Window” better comply with the notoriously prudish Hays Code), I think Fritz Lang succeeded in making the movie more profound thanks to that ending. Richard Wanley’s overkill climactic reaction to a strange woman’s request to light her cigarette may seem hilarious, but it actually shows the correct tactic for abstaining from seemingly small temptations. Up to that point in the story, Richard failed to make the right choice each time, because making it would require just a little more willpower and energy than he was prepared to give it. In the humorous climax, however, Richard puts all his willpower and energy into the tiny right choice, refusing the “call to a dark adventure” with everything he’s got – and no matter how funny it may look, that’s probably one of the best ways it can be done.

In “The Woman in the Window”, Fritz Lang tells us that freedom of will is real, and can be actualized by investing our complete commitment into the right choice. “The window” of the title is the opening that allows us to see the reality beyond our mundane world, and “the woman” is any obstacle that blocks our vision of that higher realm. We must therefore concentrate on fulfilling our moral mission, and turn away from any “women in windows”, whatever specific forms they may take in each case.

Dimitri Vorontzov


Dogtooth, Large Image

Dogtooth, dir. by Yorgos Lanthimos, 2009

I want to begin by deciphering the meaning of the film’s iconic logo, used in its opening credits and posters. If we understand the meaning of that image, it will be a lot easier to recognize the message conveyed in this work of cinematic art. Here’s the full image, combined of three elements:

Dogtooth Logo, Medium Image

In the film, the logo appears one element at a time. First, the yellow flat line:

Dogtooth Logo, Flat Line

Yellow is a color of gold, a measure of social value; of the Sun, the center of the planetary hierarchy, and therefore, of the ruler, the government, and any kind of social system. A flat line, in medical terms, is an attribute of death (no heartbeat); metaphorically, it’s an expression of ethical and personal neutrality. A social being, characterized by the flat line, exists in the state of complete conformity; that being is morally inactive and cannot make mistakes. Neither can it achieve any spiritual heights, so is neither “good” nor “bad” because it’s personality had been reduced to zero.

The yellow flat line on the screen is followed by the red figure that has a certain resemblance of a semi-swastika:

Dogtooth Logo, Semi-Swastika

Red is the color of blood, danger, sexuality, suffering (inflicted or experienced); and, very fittingly, red has inevitably been chosen as a color of organized rebellion (whether of French, Russian, Chinese, South American or any other variety). The “semi-swastika” figure grows out of the preceding flat line and retains the flat line as its part, with medium-sized dogtooth-like protuberances growing up and down. The flat line part of the figure points at the compromise at its essence; a state of a human being, illustrated by that figure, is that of an excruciating conflict between the need for freedom and the urge to follow rules. The figure illustrate a painful and futile attempt at self-liberation, marred by fear.

Finally, after the red “semi-swastika” figure, the blue sinusoid appears:

Dogtooth Logo, Sinusoid

Blue: the color of sky, freedom, and spirituality; the color of God. The sinusoid represents the full range of fulfilled human potential and experience in all its aspects, achievable only to those few who can let go of their slavery to the yellow flat line. The blue sinusoid is the ideal state of spiritual freedom that wasn’t achieved by anyone we see onscreen in “Dogtooth”. (There may be a small probability that such spiritual freedom had been achieved by the absent character of the “escaped brother”.)

In this essay I want to focus on the themes and idea of “Dogtooth”, but I can’t help praising it, even if only briefly, for its aesthetic qualities. The authors (Yorgos Lanthimos and Efthymis Filippou) must have thoroughly brainstormed the subject matter. The film explores every aspect of its material, and maintains the steady supply of freshly shocking scenes. The son killing a cat with pruning shears. The setup of vicious guard dogs in the dog training sequence, and the visual “punch line” of a tiny, confused, intimidated white mutt, the owner barking at it: “Rex! Rex! Rex!”. The whole family barking mad (literally). And just as you think the film can’t avoid repeating itself any longer, it shocks you even more. Fish in the swimming pool. “Grandfather’s” song. Father and mother mouthing words. A wedding anniversary dance by the two sisters. Delightful!

Even though most of the action in “Dogtooth” contained within one family (and within one house and yard), it’s not a movie about interactions between parents and children or husbands and wives (even though the truths formulated in this dark comedy without a trace of a smile can be applied to family relationships, too). The family in the film serves as a model of oppressive society… not that there can be a society that is not oppressive. (Using the microcosm of a family to express ideas pertinent to society isn’t anything new in film history; “The Shining” (1980), directed by Stanley Kubrick, is one of the most famous examples.)

The limitations imposed by society bring about numerous psychological and behavioral aberrations in people under strain: masochism and sadism (“the game of endurance”, cutting off the feet, hands and nose of a doll, and the “attack of a cat armed with a hammer” sequence); ferocious, predatory competitiveness (fighting over toy airplanes); infantilism (for example, in the episode where the son, who could be in his thirties, can’t sleep because of the full moon and climbs into his parents bed); lack of confidence and self-esteem (the siblings’ vocal delivery and body language are remarkable in their expression of expecting punishment for any wrong move). Incest is promoted for the sake of integrity and safety of the family.

Fear and misinformation are the most important instruments of the oppressor. Subjects consumed by fear will have to obey the ruler. We’re all well familiar with how it works. “The cat is the most dangerous animal there is. We have to be ready in case it invades the house or a garden.” (We’re so used to security guards handling the contents of our bags in libraries, museums and theaters – the guards who don’t really look into our bags; we’re so used to taking off our shoes and approaching metal detectors in airports barefoot – that we think of these idiotic rituals as something normal and don’t even feel humiliated by them anymore. How shameful!) Misinformation requires certain effort, but in the long run is almost as effective as fear: the father who removes the labels from water bottles and spear-hunts the live fish he put in the swimming pool, and the mother who narrates the modified vocabulary lessons for her children are bound to be obeyed and respected as the ultimate authority figures.

Society promotes competition and administers tests. The winner of any competition is predetermined, and the purpose of the tests is not so much to gauge the compliance of the subject with the social standards, as to impose those standards. The very act of testing, followed by qualification, is the event where the rules to be complied with are introduced and ingrained in the minds. Whenever you’re subjected to any type of testing: whether IQ tests or other forms of psychometric and aptitude tests, or any kind of personality questionnaires, be aware that you are being molded into the norm, and some part of your inherent originality is being destroyed. The people of the system who give you the tests are trying to enforce their authority over your mind by testing you. Tests eliminate your originality, they transform you into a mediocrity that is easy to control. Things like “high IQ” , or even “high emotional IQ” are not really indicators of true intelligence, and the intelligence itself is not the indicator of your true value. Those are just social mechanisms to assign a label and a place in the grid for you. Any talents you may have – whether to drawing, music or medicine – will be placed in service of the system.

Aside from tests, there are more direct ways of imposing notions on minds. Society does that non-stop, defining our reality for us and adding ageism, sexism and multiple other “isms” to our perception: “What’s the most creative age of a man?” – “Between 30 and 40!” – “What’s the most creative age of a woman?” – “Between 20 and 30!” Names of those who managed to escape the influence of the system are used to instill more fear: “Your brother was killed because he leaved the safety of our house”. Entertainment offers one of the most effective methods of brainwashing. The scene in which the father uses “Fly me to the moon” (sung by the British Frank Sinatra impersonator Fred Gardner) as an indoctrination tool can serve a great illustration of the mechanism. (Ever wondered why true art of intellectual cinema barely survives in dilapidated “art-houses” while some idiocy like “Saw XXVII” boldly occupies large screens in cineplexes? It’s not because commercially successful intellectual cinema isn’t viable; it’s because society needs dull, witless entertainment to keep you stupid. Our entertainment movies work much in the same way as Goebbels’ propaganda films.)

Society applies “dog training” methods to human beings, keeping us imprisoned until we pass the “stage 5” of our training: complete submission, total elimination of our inherent characters, pure social function: a zombie.

But that’s not the worst; and that’s where we approach the message of the film.

“A child is ready to leave the house when the right or left dogtooth comes out. Only then is your body ready to face the dangers that lurk. To leave the house and be safe outside, we must take the car. A child is ready to learn to drive when the dogtooth grows again.”

Society has a safety mechanism against the rebel types. There are rules for the rebellion. In “Dogtooth”, the older daughter falls into a trap of rebelling “by the book”: similarly to the group of characters in Luis Buñuel’s “El ángel exterminador” (1962), she can’t just force herself to walk out of the gate; she finds in necessary to execute the program installed in her mind by society. The scene in which the older daughter knocks out her tooth with a dumbbell and then locks herself in a trunk of her father’s car, illustrates the heroic pains a typical rebel takes, hoping to break free from the system, but in reality blindly following the explicit commands provided by that system. Think of how often we put ourselves through painful acts of fulfilling what society imposes as the conditions for our freedom: we go out of our way to free ourselves, but do it according to the rules determined by society (through hard work, humiliation or any other type of self-inflicted suffering). The scene of knocking out the dogtooth demonstrates the illusory nature of any initiation ritual and oppression at the core of any mythology in service of society.

Dimitri Vorontzov

The original Greek title of this film is Κυνόδοντας, (Kynodontas), it’s produced by Iraklis Mavroidis, Athina Rachel Tsangari and Yorgos Tsourianis at Boo Productions in 2009.

The Vanishing, Large Image

Spoorloos, dir. by George Sluizer, 1988

A note on the method: one of the key questions we must ask when analyzing any work of art is whether the artist expresses a pessimistic or optimistic point of view. It’s typically “either – or”, because the mixture of both is practically never even, and tends toward either optimism or pessimism (most commonly the latter). Determining a pessimistic or optimistic point of view of a film is often easy, because in most works the climax and resolution leave no place for doubt: it’s either a happy ending, or a “downer”. For example, Ingmar Bergman’s “In the Presence of the Clown” (1997) is unmistakably one of the most pessimistic films even for this generally ruthless director: in the dilemma of “sinking” versus “rising” he chose “sinking” in the climax. In a somewhat less obvious case, “Scenes from a Marriage” (1973), also by Bergman, a grain of hope remains at the end, but knowing the previous history of Johann and Marianne, we can be sure they will never truly reunite. On the other hand, “Fanny and Alexander” (1983) and “The Magic Flute” (1975) are optimistic stories, despite their inevitably ironic endings.

To be able to define a film as optimistic or pessimistic, we should have clear understanding of its main theme.  “Some people are lucky to get a fair treatment, but ultimately, the justice doesn’t exist”. Theme: justice; attitude: pessimism.  “People do suffer unfairly sometimes, but in the long run justice always triumphs, even if not completely”. Theme: justice; attitude: optimism. “God either doesn’t exist or doesn’t give a damn about His people”. Theme: religion; attitude: pessimism. “God is perfect, omniscient and omnipresent, and His will determines everything that happens to us, even if we don’t understand Him”. Theme: religion; attitude: optimism.

Having defined the theme and the outlook, we must determine whether the artist gives artistically compelling, competent proof of his pessimistic or optimistic position. And finally, we must choose whether we agree or disagree with the offered point of view, and why.

Analyzing “Spoorloos” (literally, “Traceless”, known in US as “The Vanishing” and in France as “L’homme qui voulait savoir”) we have to conclude that even though the film has a deceptively optimistic climactic point (Rex has a vision of reuniting with Saskia) – it ends with a perfectly pessimistic resolution: Rex and Saskia are dead, their photos are apart from one another on the newspaper page, their murderer enjoys impunity, and even his deep existential angst emotionally underlines the bleak mood of the ending.

The film deals with the theme of communication, and asserts pessimistically that human contact is impossible despite any effort. Did  the director George Sluizer prove the idea convincingly? Do we agree with him? I won’t retell “Spoorloos” in this article: I assume the reader has seen it. Instead, I’ll sketch a list of themes treated in the film, and scenes that illustrate those themes.

Blending in with nature: the opening shot of the stick insect attached to a tree, followed by a panorama across the blooming meadow. Rex and Saskia’s choice to explore the countryside. The shot of the praying mantis in the grass at the end of the film. The bushes growing out of Rex and Saskia’s graves. Animals on a torn poster next to the poster of the vanished Saskia. This theme must be interpreted in two ways: as an expression of a desire to achieve a state of harmony with nature, and as a visual metaphor of mimicry. The image of the praying mantis in particular offers a number of relevant allusions: the insect makes itself near-invisible in the environment, lying in wait, and then attacks its prey suddenly, with terrific speed. It’s a cannibal insect, known for devouring its mates during copulation. It’s clear that the praying mantis metaphor points at Raymond, the film’s sociopathic antagonist. However, the protagonist, Rex, initially displays a lot of similar qualities: in the beginning of the film, having just abandoned Saskia in a car stranded in a middle of a dark tunnel where she may be killed by a passing truck, Rex, in his own words, feels more in love with her than ever before.

Survival: expressed in the film metaphorically through the recurrent motive of the Tour de France bicycle race.  The all-permeating race for survival is one of the major factors contributing to the impossibility of true contact in the material world. As long as we’re preoccupied with having to survive, we are competitors in the race to every other survivor, and therefore cannot truly unite with them. Rex’s ability to overcome his urge to survive is the key turning point in his character development arch.

Superficiality of communication: one of the film’s notable features is the nonsense “small talk” type of dialogue illustrating lack of contact between people. It’s introduced in the opening scene of the film, when Rex and Saskia rant about animals, insects and trees (all things nature). Later, Rex and Raymond compare the nonsensical Dutch and French last names. Ironically, Rex appears to have much better rapport with the murderer of his wife, than he had with her. Raymond also calls out Rex’s superficiality by labeling him as an “amateur cyclist”. Raymond’s behavior appears to be anything but superficial: his meticulous preparation to a murder is a masterpiece of organizing. However, Raymond’s relationship with his wife and daughters is beyond superficial: being a sociopath, Raymond lacks empathy in any form, and his contact with members of his family is limited to using and manipulating them. In one memorable bit of dialogue, Raymond directly tells his wife about his obsession with committing an act of ultimate evil – but he omits the specifics, and what he says may be attributed to his obsession with their country house, proving that even when the truth is told, the listener is likely to interpret it from a subjective point of view. The importance of this episode is underlined with subtle, eerie music. In a more dramatic way, Raymond’s interaction with Rex may be interpreted as a highly perverted, doomed attempt at establishing a contact.

Isolation: Saskia’s recurrent nightmare about floating through space trapped in a golden egg. (There’s another golden egg drifting nearby, and should the two eggs collide, it will all be over.) Rex having the same dream. Rex and Saskia being trapped in a car inside the dark tunnel. Saskia’s terror of abandonment. Of course, the climactic event of the film is the ultimate metaphor for the state of isolation. Most importantly, the isolated photos of Rex and Saskia in the newspaper. The physical isolation in “Spoorloos” is horrifying, but the psychological alienation described in the film is probably even more profoundly disturbing, and I do not refer here only to near-autistic mental isolation of Raymond preparing for the murder. The isolation of Rex throughout the film is subtler, but no less complete. After Saskia has vanished, Rex is naturally terrified for her, but that doesn’t prevent him from being a lot more preoccupied, even if only momentarily, with the theft of their bicycles. Only two years later he is already in love with another woman, Lieneke, and would choose her over his former love, should Saskia suddenly reappear. Lieneke, however, is not happy with Rex, because he never stops thinking about Saskia, and the true contact between him and Lieneke never occurs. Rex’s curiosity about Saskia’s fate is so obsessive that he would rather choose the situation in which she is dead but he knows what happened to her, than her being alive on the condition that he knows nothing. Even the main motivation that ultimately leads Rex to his sacrifice is curiosity, rather than love. George Sluizer emphasizes the similarity in the opposing characters of Raymond and Rex, asserting the nature of Rex’s relationship with Saskia – the nature of any “normal” relationship, really – as inherently sociopathic. There’s a great deal of resemblance between what Rex does to Saskia in the tunnel and what Raymond does to her off-screen. Raymond is claustrophobic, and his idea of  “the most horrible deed that is worse than killing” is, of course, the act of trapping a living being in complete and hopeless isolation.

Subjectivism: yet another manifestation of the isolation. I already mentioned the dialogue of Raymond and his wife that expresses the notion of subjectivism very clearly. Raymond’s younger daughter is sure that he has a mistress, and Raymond doesn’t try to convince her otherwise. In the tunnel, Saskia’s suffering is Rex’s triumph, and he subjectively believes that at that moment he’s in love with her, just while she’s at the peak of hating him, tormented by her fear of being abandoned. A single woman who interprets Raymond’s approach as an attempt to pick her up. Saskia, blinded by her love to Rex, falling into the murderer’s trap because she hoped to buy a gift for her husband.

Rex in the beginning of the film is self-centered and oblivious of the emotional needs of Saskia. It’s rather natural that Saskia finds herself isolated even in his presence. After Saskia has vanished, the mounting pressure, the urge to know what happened to his wife gradually transforms Rex, making him take action to overcome his lack of awareness. The only chance to destroy superficiality and subjectivism, the only one way to establish a connection with another human being is to discard the ego by putting oneself through the same experience. Having allowed himself that choice, Rex took the ultimate step toward uniting with Saskia and breaking through the shell of the “golden egg”. Rex’s character arch leads him from the state of natural isolation to the conscious choice of becoming the other person by living through the extreme ordeal that person had experienced, even if it means death in the end. Having thus shed his ego, Rex becomes the true hero. There’s just one problem with his self-sacrifice: it’s naive and ultimately useless. Even in recreating Saskia’s experience, Rex remains isolated within his subjectivism, and his final vision of  reuniting with Saskia is nothing more than wishful thinking of a dying man. The reunion only takes place in his imagination. Even the strongest, least conservative action doesn’t lead to lifting the limits of isolation. Death turns out to be not the way to unite with another human being, but merely the way to achieve the ultimate harmony with nature: by dissolving into it, becoming it. Hence, the two separate bushes growing out of Rex and Saskia’s final resting place.

I am forced to admit that within the limits of the given story, I find the point of view of George Sluizer well-argued. Philosophically, it’s an uncompromising position, and I respect that. And yet, everything in my belief system prevents me from accepting that point of view. Yes, we are limited by our material bodies and social statuses, by language and emotions, and of course we’re bound by the shortness of our lifetime and the need to survive. But I simply can’t allow myself to give up hope that my connection with someone I love is real. Even if true human contact is an exception to the general rule, I want to implement that exception in my reality.

Dimitri Vorontzov


La Pianiste, Large Image

La Pianiste, dir. by Michael Haneke, 2001

There’s a certain type of predator whose function is to lure potentially enlightened people away from enlightenment.  The predator, socially deprived of traditional ways to achieve dominance, is motivated by the urge to dominate and will occupy the professional position of authority related to a certain spiritual phenomenon, and will dedicate all its energy to negating every aspect of spirituality inherent in such phenomenon. For example, the predator can be a music teacher who, as it is unfortunately common among music teachers, will do everything to teach a talented youngster who genuinely loves music that music is to be hated.  The predator is inevitably seductive to immature but promising minds who plead to become the predator’s disciples. Once the  teacher-disciple relationship is initiated, the predator will immediately attack the unprepared mind with extreme force of utter cynicism and materialism.

Every human being, every one of us really, has the devil as well as angel in us. In many cases the dark side is counterbalanced with fear of society. Spiritually enlightened, or potentially enlightened people are rarely afraid of society and in their case the dark side is counterbalanced with intelligence, compassion and culture. But what if compassion and culture are removed? There’s no fear of society in that individual, and the dark side, powered by intelligence, swiftly takes over and irreparably destroys the personality of the individual. The predator blocks every possible chance for its victim to ever regain spirituality. I’m not into yoga, but using yogic terminology metaphorically, it’s as if an unbreakable lid is set permanently over the top chakra of the predator’s victim.

In life, just like in the film, the predator is likely to use sexuality as the simplest, most obvious and effective materialistic weapon, to keep things at a level of the second chakra, so to speak. This doesn’t have to be done physically and in person, as in “La Pianiste”. Very often a questionable authority figure in music, visual art or literature will attempt to impose sexual interpretation of the meaning of a great artwork, or novel or a work in any other artistic medium. Sexuality is a very obvious way, but it’s not the only way. To speak more generally, any spiritual idea can be materialistically reinterpreted by the predator.  If a bright but unstable mind trusts such reinterpretation, a tragedy may occur, as illustrated by Michael Haneke in his film.

Dimitri Vorontzov


M, by Fritz Lang, 1951 - Large Image

M, dir. by Fritz Lang, 1931

Film storytellers who aim to make strong moral statements may choose to rely on extreme, controversial perspectives in order to get their message across. For example, Liliana Cavani in “The Night Porter” (1974), wishing to express the power of romantic love, selected a Nazi torturer and his female victim as a pair of star-crossed lovers. Similarly, Lars von Trier in “Breaking the Waves” (1996), striving to emphasize that a wife can achieve saint-like enlightenment by submitting unquestioningly to her husband’s will, made the husband a sexually obsessed paraplegic who forces his wife into the life of prostitution. In my opinion, both filmmakers failed to cope with their unmanageable material and fell into relishing of sadomasochistic aspects of perverted relationships they attempted to justify. Extreme perspective is a risky method, demanding highly developed taste and a great deal of healthy rationality from any artist who wishes to use it. As a significantly more successful example stands out Merian C. Cooper and Earnest B. Shoedsack’s “King Kong” (1933), in which the power of a femme fatale to ensnare and destroy even the most resourceful and violent male was famously illustrated by pitting a seemingly innocent and helpless young actress against the murderous oversized ape of the title.

One of the finest examples of cinematic narration that employs such “broad brushstrokes” dramatic technique is “M – Eine Stadt sucht einen Mörder “, written by Fritz Lang and Thea von Harbou, and directed by Lang in 1931. The central character of the story is Hans Beckert (Peter Lorre’s arguably most famous role), the maniac who terrorizes Berlin for months by luring and killing children. Hardly any character in film history would seem to deserve less compassion than Hans Beckert – and yet compassion to that monster is precisely the emotion Fritz Lang leads his audience to experience.

The animal nature of the Homo Sapiens has enough power to dictate our behavior; history offers countless illustrations for the scope of viciousness of our species. We brought ruin to nations, ethnic groups and entire civilizations; we even murdered our God. And yet I refuse to regard myself as merely a beast with a somewhat better developed brain: I choose to believe that at the core of every human being’s psychological setup there’s a well-defined structure of moral principles that should govern that individual’s decisions. Some people may be less sensitive to such inner postulates, and others may have no way whatsoever of connecting with their conscience, but I can’t help thinking that it’s more than just the social taboo or biological survival-of-the-species imperative that prevents us from destroying each other at every opportunity. I may be too optimistic, but I’d like to hope that an average human being is imbued with the deep sense of empathy that forbids us to cause evil to others. At the very least, I think that any person aspiring to spirituality should develop such sense.

So how can it happen that any human being, even though inherently moral, may give in to an impulse to do evil? In what ways does our demonic nature triumph over morality?

According to Fritz Lang, nature and society have conspired to create a loophole in our moral code, allowing any human being to circumvent the inner interdiction of causing harm to others. The loophole that can be metaphorically named “M” consists of justifying an evil deed with high moral considerations. A person may consider any malicious act as acceptable if it’s being done “for the greater good”.

Every one of us needs to see self as “good” and “right”. We need to experience our philosophy as correct. Such sense of moral righteousness forms the basis of our ability to assess the environment, and is therefore essential to our physical survival. And yet none of us is absolutely good. We can only be good by comparison with someone else whom we consider “worse than us”. That’s how very early in life we learn to demonize others in order to justify our actions: we develop the need for having an enemy. We mark the enemy for destruction with the proverbial “M” and feel justified in our desire to destroy.

A serial murderer of children qualifies as the ideal candidate for the role of the enemy. It’s easy to hate him: no one is more ignoble than he is. Even the criminals who have to kill for survival feel justified in their righteous urge to punish Hans Beckert – and up to a certain point in the film we, the audience, may even emphasize with the criminals, who stop at nothing to capture the maniac; we, too, want him killed.

But even though Der Schränker, the master criminal, asserts that his organization must destroy Hans Beckert to protect the children, that’s not the real motivation. The crooks want Hans Beckert out of commission because their criminal business is disrupted by daily raids the police has to conduct in search for the maniac. Saving the children is only a noble pretense that hides purely economic interests… and yet even those interests become secondary by the time the maniac is finally at the mercy of Der Schränker and his kangaroo court of thieves. The masks are off and the audience finally realizes the true underlying motive of the violence: the sheer sadistic pleasure of destroying someone completely helpless.

This notion is best expressed by Hans Beckert himself in his climactic monologue. The monster describes being chased by his “other self” and the ghosts of his victims, and confesses that only the moment of actual killing gives him temporary sense of relief and freedom from guilt.

When neighbors write anonymous letters to the police about each other, accusing each other of being child murderers; when drinking buddies spontaneously decide to ostracize one of their own and expose him as a pedophile; when a street bully towers over a little old man and then drags him to a police – all these events in the film are rationalized by the hunt for the child murderer, but in reality the urge to expose a maniac is only a pretense: people simply use it to feel justified in their hatred to their neighbors and in their desire to dominate and destroy another human being. The crooks set up their court not because they want to punish the evil deed, but simply because they need, for once, to experience the sense of liberating righteousness while committing a murder.

The true reason for violence is the sensation of power it can give. The wicked do evil so that they can experience the doing. Anything else is merely a rationalization. The existence of such rationalization is the main theme treated by Fritz Lang in his film. The message is twofold: we must be able to recognize the truth when someone is using a beautiful justification for an evil deed; and even more importantly, we must be aware of our own inherent desire to do evil, and must prevent our attempts to use the loophole in our ethics and justify our potential wickedness by any kind of greater good. No matter how monstrous our enemy may be, if we succumb to hatred, we destroy our own souls.

You may think this idea is way too abstract, but it’s immediately applicable to the current reality – to any current reality. The ruse of justifying evil actions with noble considerations is well-known and has been used consistently all through history. People were tortured and killed in the name of true faith and spiritual enlightenment, salvation of their own souls, national unity, protection of society, duty, and, on many occasions, even out of pacifism (as in “Sergeant York”, dir. by Howard Hawks, 1941). When my country attacks another country on the opposite side of the globe, whether to destroy a tyrant, establish the democracy or protect innocent civilians, I am repelled, because I know that all these beautiful motives hide the ugly truth. Wars are waged for money, influence, power – and for the joy of killing.

Dimitri Vorontzov

L'Arrivee d'un train en gare de la Ciotat, 1895, Large Image

L’Arrivée d’un train en gare de La Ciotat, 1895

My goal in writing this article is to prove that “L’Arrivee d’un train” is remarkable not merely as one of the early examples of moving image, but more importantly, as an early work of cinema as art – thanks to its profound philosophical controlling idea. I know the film in two different versions, marked with the same number: Lumiere #653. One of the two versions includes the footage of a lavishly dressed woman and her tiny daughter, running together hand in hand alongside the railroad track. The other version can be recognized by the image of a man wearing a light suit and a cap, walking backwards in front of the camera, likely aware that he’s in the shot, but probably not realizing that the apparatus he’s being filmed with is Le Cinematographe Lumiere.

According to the famous urban myth, during the premiere of this 50-seconds-long film in 1896 in Lyon the audience was so terrified of the image of the arriving train that many people leaped up from their seats, screaming, and ran to the back of the screening room. That myth may or may not be true, and yet, it appears certain that Auguste and Louis Lumiere, when they captured the approaching train on film at the most expressive angle they could think of, did expect to elicit strong emotional reaction from their audience. This was the likely reason why they didn’t stop the camera immediately after the train arrived to the platform, but kept rolling to record the hubbub of disembarking passengers and people greeting them on the platform: the pre-climactic buildup of the locomotive filling the screen was too powerful and needed a relatively longer period of relief.

People at the premiere of the film knew that the train was merely an illusion, a sequence of  photographs projected onto a white screen – and yet their reaction to the illusion was real. Seeing the arriving train made people tense up, hold their breath, perhaps even gasp, their heartbeat quickened, the palms of their hands moist, their mouths dry – or, if the legend had any basis in reality,  maybe some of the viewers did scream and run in panic.  Whatever the reaction was, it was intended by the Lumiers, the masters of illusion. And their intention can help us to recognize the controlling idea, the intrinsic philosophical message of this early example of the art of film.

“L’Arrive d’un train” says that even though we may be aware of the illusory nature of a certain event, that event is nevertheless likely to elicit a strong emotional response from us, and therefore, to motivate us to action. The emotion provoked by an event may be positive or negative, and therefore we may act out of fear or desire – but whatever the motive, we end up acting all the same, and become involved, entangled, in the various manifestations of the material world – or, metaphorically, in the idle dither of the crowd greeting the proverbial train that rushes on to crush us. With that crowd we chase that train, no more capable of releasing ourselves from the claws of illusion than the tiny girl on the platform can free herself from the grasp of her oblivious mother – and even if we realize the hidden mechanisms of the occurrence and decide to move against the flow and avoid being “in the shot”, like the backward-walking gentleman in the light suit and a cap, we still can’t help being “captured” – objectified by the material and social system – against our will.

Obviously, this message refers to much more than just the illusion of images moving on a screen. Any type of illusion works in the same way, whether it’s money (in our age, nothing more than abstract arrangement of particles on the disks of banking computers),  terrorists (modern boogeymen, replacing communist conspiracy in public mind and forcing countries into wars), medicine (pills that promise to save us but put our health out of balance instead) and myriad of other things. So the idea at the core of this film is not only deep but also practical.

Despite its apparent pessimism, the Lumieres’ philosophical warning offers hope. If we know where the trap is laid for us, we have a chance to avoid it, so by being aware of our human propensity to act on impulse stirred by the illusion, we can counterpose our conscious refusal to follow that impulse.

The idea, expressed by the Lumieres, is congruent with their chosen medium: the method fits the message. With “L’Arrivee d’un train”, Auguste et Louis became the founders of the tradition of cinema exploring and exploiting its own illusory nature. The pinnacle figure of that tradition was, of course, the great Ingmar Bergman who, remarkably, titled his autobiography  “Laterna Magica”, thus implying that his life and creative work constituted a mere succession of illusory projections.

Dimitri Vorontzov

The complete title of the film discussed in this article is “L’arrivee d’un train en gare de La Ciotat”. It was produced and directed by the French inventors of cinema, Auguste and Louis Lumiere, in 1895.

My Left Foot, by Jim Sheridan, 1989 - Large Image

My Left Foot, dir. by Jim Sheridan, 1989

This movie is not a medical drama, as it is sometimes mistakenly categorized, but rather an existential parable, focused on the paradox of spirituality found within the bonds of human condition. Within the material world, we are all crippled: bound in our spiritual pursuit by the limitations of our physical body. The illness of Christy Brown is interpreted in the film as a general metaphor, the illness of being born into the material universe. By default we are all seen by society as “morons” and “dunces”, capable of only most fundamental physical needs. Our spiritual aspirations are blocked. Human life is marred with suffering and alienation. We have very little control of our bodies and of our destinies.

But the tiny measure of control we are given, the proverbial “left foot”, the symbol of spiritual action, allows us to accomplish seemingly impossible. Christy Brown and Jim Sheridan tell us: if you truly desire to fulfill your spiritual path, to grow your soul, if every moment of your life, every bit of life energy given to you is directed at your uprising against the limitations of your body, if you crave things beyond material with all your heart, God will give you what you ask. You must pray in your mind and especially in your actions, because your actions are the prayers God will hear. You must passionately refuse to accept your limitations, like Christy Brown who, despite his disability, plays football and provokes a classic Irish barroom brawl.

If you are persistent in your inner work, you can overcome any obstacle and become a writer, a painter and a poet – or anything else you want to be. You can even accomplish the most difficult feat of all: establishing true contact with another human being; such contact constitutes the climax of Jim Sheridan’s film.

Dimitri Vorontzov