Leviathan
(2014)
(SPOILERS) Andrey Zvyagnistev’s tale of misery and despair
is the sort of sunny fare one typically expects from Russian cinema. Taking its
cues from the Book of Job, the
director has fashioned a bleak and persuasive vision where persevering through suffering
and loss yields no ultimate reward; indeed, punishment elicits further
punishment. The powerful get more powerful, while the impoverished are ground
under foot. God has no place in this universe, except as a totem of the
religious structures using his iconograpy to support the state.
The picture, partially funded by the Russian Ministry of
Culture, was subjected to criticism from its Minister for its cynical view of a
country inflicted with an utterly corrupt system and a populace fuelled by
vodka. Naturally then, western media has seized this upon this, since Putin’s
Russia being held in new lows of regard. One wonders if this wasn’t partially
the reason for its Best Picture Oscar nomination; the chance to use a picture
from and financed by his own government to dress the President down.
Leviathan isn’t
going to change anyone’s preconceptions on Russian fare (“Always full of women staring out of windows, whining about ducks going
to Moscow”), although the amount of alcohol consumed here would make even
Withnail blanche. This isn’t a picture populate by likeable protagonists; the
most sympathetic character is driven to suicide following an affair with her
husband’s lawyer. There’s no new dawn to look forward to in this dying coastal
town, where handyman Kolya (Aleksei Serebrayakov) is unsuccessfully fighting
Mayor Vadim’s (Roman Madyanov) order to possess his land (the only thing they
have in common is a proclivity for liquor).
As his former army friend and lawyer Dima (Vladimir Vdovichenkov)
tells Kolya, he’s a “hothead”; as
much as chain-smoking Kolya is on the receiving end of corrupt deals and
persecution, he has only as much clarity as he can see through the gauze of a
vodka bottle. His young second wife Lilya (Elena Lyadova) is unhappy, isolated,
stuck with a dead-end job gutting fish, prospectively consigned to an apartment
that makes most squats look plush and resented by their stepson; it’s little
wonder she seeks respite in Dima’s arms, leading to further ructions. When she kills
herself, it’s the caustic icing on Kolya’s downfall; whether by Vadim’s direct
involvement or not, Kolya is tried for his wife’s murder (“Thank God. That’ll teach him to know his place” Vadim comments on
learning of Kolya’s 15 year sentence; he has already seen off Dima by staging a
fake-out execution).
In the early part of the picture, Dima’s voice of reason and
logic at least appears partially as a guiding light (Kolya is only comparable
to Job in as much as his situation is hopeless; he isn’t comforted by any
affirmations or abiding belief). Facts are most important to Dima; facts can
change things. Truth will out. His bafflement with the townsfolk’s
preoccupations (“Why do you all keep
asking me about God?”) only becomes thematically clear as the relationship
between Vadim and the local bishop in his pocket plays out. The final scenes
reveal that Kolya’s house has been knocked down to make way for a new church,
not the subtlest illustration of the hypocrisy of the religious edifice and the
manner in which it is just another side of the same coin as government. The
wiles of a Moscow lawyer have no place where the rules are disregarded and
truth won’t out (although the main reason for Dima being chased out of town is
presumably that he bluffed Vadim, and there wasn’t actually anyone with any
weight behind the dossier he presents to the mayor).
As acutely well performed as Zvyaginstev’s picture is, understatement
is not its strongest suit. Not only is Kolya cast as Job, but a priest he
converses with also quotes the book as a recipe for stoicism in the face of
torment. He just so happens to pick a passage featuring the leviathan of the
title, and there just so happens to be an immense whale skeleton decorating the
local beach, a symbol of the barebones poverty of the town and the fate of
Kolya. It’s also a rebuke to the scripture, which claims that nothing can pull
in such a beast – it seems the machinations of the powerful can hook it (although it’s much more
evocative to see the biblical leviathan as a sea monster, rather than a common
or ocean whale).
The cast deserve universal praise. In particular, Lyadova’s
descent into oblivion is devastating in its claustrophobic inevitability.
Madyanov is also strong portraying the mayor’s loathsome tyranny. Perhaps a
problem here is that, in remaining with Kolya’s essentially unsympathetic
character (drunk, ill-tempered and violent), it is difficult to fully engage
with the tragedy after Lilya exits. Leviathan
ends on a note of resigned inevitability, which may be a reflection of how
Zvtaginstev sees his homeland. In one scene, framed pictures of former Russian
and Soviet premiers are used for target practice. Kolya asks where the more
recent ones are; the current office holder is conspicuously framed in Vadim’s
office.
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