The Death of Stalin
(2017)
(SPOILERS) Armando Iannucci’s previous big screen effort, In the Loop, wasn’t, I felt, quite as
effective as the short-sharp-sniggers its tighter TV companion The Thick of It delivered. With The Death of Stalin, the only common
ground is that he’s still immersing himself in politics. Which, let’s face is
it, is a substantial amount of common ground, as both follow a procession of
ineptitude, backstabbing, power grabs and self-preservation. What makes the The Death of Stalin particularly stand out,
though, is that it isn’t just very funny, it also works as a thriller.
One can, if one so choses, impress upon the picture stunning
topicality, much as attempts have been made with the seemingly innocuous Paddington 2, but Iannucci’s more than
willing to admit the Stalin’s genesis
and production came both pre-Trump and pre-Brexit, making it “strangely relevant in a way I wasn’t
expecting”. Which rather illustrates that this kind of tale, well-told and
with a flourish of barbs, can apply itself to any climate; as much as we may
wish to see a particular moment – invariably the current one – as the worst
ever, they more usually represent slightly rearranged furniture or more overt
targets. Likewise, the “fake news” of false narratives, suddenly a talking
point because it has been characterised by a catchy phrase, as if it hasn’t
been common currency since the first printing press, and before.
Iannucci’s take on the death of the dictator is replete with
familiar verbosity, spectacularly colourful insults, broad, familiar character
types (often buffoonish or abusive/splenetic, or both) encountering escalating
frustrations in their attempts to smooth over troubled waters. But, while
obviously a comedy at first glance, he doesn’t attempt to disguise or diminish the
subject matter’s more serious, darker (much darker) undercurrents, striking a
deftly farcical balance that puts one in mind of more Strangelovian ventures.
The absurdity inherent in the story is, by Armando’s account,
unvarnished, with elements sometimes even downplayed as too much (Field Marshal
Zhukov actually had more medals than that; the opening, with a masterfully
frustrated Paddy Considine as the head
of Radio Moscow desperately trying to re-stage the evening’s concert performance
so Stalin can have a recorded copy, is purportedly true – albeit it occurred in
1944 – only compounded when one learns that not only was a second conductor brought
in but also a third; the first replacement was drunk).
The time frame has also been compressed; it took Stalin four
days to die from stroke, it was more than three months later that Beria was
arrested and another six months before he was executed. Beria and his immediate
power grab is effectively the focus of the movie, even though Khrushchev (Steve
Buscemi) is the lead protagonist (I’d hesitate to say “hero”, but as presented,
he’s more moderate and practical than his peers), and Simon Russell Beale, who does
relatively little film and TV work (he was George Smiley in Radio 4’s Le Carré
adaptations) offers a compellingly duplicitous, venomous and twisted portrait
of the man Stalin proudly referred to as the Soviet Union’s Himmler: his chief
torturer and compiler of death lists (although, apparently, he actually engaged
in fewer purges than his predecessor; these things are relative, of course).
Beria (previously played by Bob Hoskins and David Suchet,
while Philip Madoc based the War Lord on Beria in Doctor Who story The War
Games,) was in charge of the NKVD, the Soviet secret police, a primary tool
for enforcing terror and putting him in an ideal position to assert control.
Iannucci was astutely aware of the potential of taking a relatively unknown
actor (outside of theatre) and placing him in the role of a relatively unknown
but key motivating force. Beria, is funny – of course he is, this is Iannucci –
but in a hollow, goading manner, lacking even the ameliorating quality of
Malcolm Tucker (where there’s at least discernible reason for his volcanic
spleen – all around him are idiots); Beria’s an entirely irredeemable, sadistic
bully, a paedophile and rapist, who without even knowledge the grim details, you
want to see delivered his comeuppance within the first few minutes of being in
his company (even though, or perhaps because, it’s entirely and pointedly without
recourse to due legal process, so reflecting his own modus operandi).
Beria’s art is to throw others off balance, taking delight
in pushing and pulling them in whichever direction he chooses on a whim, suggesting
allegiance or treason depending on the moment. All to Khrushchev’s increasing
exasperation. This is a prize Buscemi role; I can’t remember when he last dug
into a part this good. Certainly, more than a decade, and he’s ably supported
by committee members exhibiting various degrees of incompetence (although,
Iannucci stresses that part of what fascinates about the regime is its very competence,
of a machine out of control).
Paul Whitehouse and Paul Chahidi make a mirthfully mocking
double act as Mikoyan and Bulganin, Dermot Crowley a withering Kaganovich, and
Jeffrey Tambor, currently having a seemingly disproportionate amount of
attention paid to his behaviour under current pack-dog conditions – he’s
certainly attracting far more column inches than Bill Clinton – draws on his portrayal of Hank in The Larry Sander Show as a blithe idiot
inflated by his prospective role as puppet premier (the only iffy element here
is that Malenkov’s occasionally invited to display cunning, so introducing an
element of inconsistency to the character).
Michael Palin’s presence as Molotov draws attention to the
almost Python-esque lunacy of some of the scenarios; on release of his wife
Polina (Diana Quick), whom he believed to have been killed (a slight
exaggeration, as Molotov was aware she was alive, imprisoned and then exiled, with
news occasionally relayed to him by Beria), he is caught between joy at her
return and toeing the line of denouncing her. This vacillation and fear of
saying what you think and saying what you think you should say, and even not
even being sure which is which, continues into a meeting of the Central
Committee in which those present show reluctance to vote in a manner that may
or may not suggest loyalty to Stalin, guided by an extremely long-winded
monologue from Molotov circles back and round as it is continues.
Fine as the Central Committee parts and players are, it’s
Jeremy Isaacs who steals the show in barnstorming fashion as Field Marshal
Zhukov, entering in explosive slow motion and mouthing off fearlessly and
coarsely with blunt Yorkshire tones (it has been much remarked on that Iannucci
made no demands of Eastern European accents, and it’s definitely to the benefit
of the naturalness of the comedy, albeit Isaacs is putting on an accent). There’s a priceless scene in which
Khrushchev goes to Zhukov for support and latter responds that he will have to
report him for such plotting, before making it clear it’s a wind up (“Look at your fucking face”).
The casual manner in which change of regime leads to a new
list of targets (on Beria’s part), with Stalin’s staff and guard executed
(including doubles), extends to the danger posed to his children. Adrian
Mcloughlin’s Stalin is a vulgar gang boss with penchant for westerns, while
Rupert Friend’s Vasily is contrastingly a spoilt, drunken brat who fails to recognise
the precariousness of his now unsupported positon. Andrea Riseborough as
Sventlana, in contrast, gradually comes to understand.
If there’s a failing in the character work, it’s that Iannucci’s
unable to deal in kind with the female roles; Friend is hilariously
unrestrained as Vasily, constantly attempting to shoot someone or disrupt
situations, but Svetlana is an altogether more sombre part, and combined with
Olga Kurylenko’s Maria Yudina, whose pivotal role derives from the graphic
novel La Mort de Staline, upon with Death is based, Iannucci falls into the trap
of casting beautiful actresses – I’m guessing he’s a big fan of Oblivion – and having them eclipsed by
the grandstanding of their male co-stars.
The screenplay, credited to Iannucci and previous
collaborators David Scheider, Ian Martin and Peter Fellows, is as expectedly
gag packed as anything he’s done previously, boasting memorable line after
memorable line, many of them inherently combative, and the scenarios tend to successively
outdo themselves for darkly comic value (attempts to get a doctor to examine Stalin
are hampered by his having had all the good ones rounded up and executed; this
appears to be based on the Doctors’ Plot episode).
Elsewhere, there’s no making light of what transpires (informed
as it is by “the underlying tension and
anxiety of twenty years of not knowing if you’d live through the night”), such
as in the massacre initiated by the NKVD – Khrushchev reversing Beria’s
decision to close off the city, having correctly calculated the bloody consequences
– who open fire when mourners break through barricades to see Stalin’s body. And
the ceremony by which one of Beria’s young rape victim is returned to her
parents (with a bunch of flowers, a Beria ritual, the intended implication
being a consensual congress). Elsewhere still, his farcical instincts lead to
uproarious results, from a succession of committee members attempting to avoid
standing or kneeling in their fallen leader’s piss when inspecting the body, to
Khrushchev unsuccessfully attempting to engineer a discussion with Beria while
standing in state around Stalin.
The Death of Stalin
is already being bestowed best of year awards, and I expect that will only
gather pace, and deservedly so. Its writer-director has other plans going forward,
however; it will be interesting to see how Iannucci fares divested of the raiment
of satire for his much-cherished next project, a film adaptation of David Copperfield.
Agree? Disagree? Mildly or vehemently? Let me know in the comments below.