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The Ascent (1977) by Larisa Shepitko

RadiantFilm

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31,340 views • 6 months ago •via X (Twitter)

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Today marks the 100th anniversary of the premiere of Battleship Potemkin, which took place at the Bolshoi Theatre in Moscow on December 21, 1925. Sergei Eisenstein on the film's premiere: "APPLAUSE LIKE THE CRACKLE of rifle shots echoes through the semi-circular corridors of the Bolshoi Theater. I am in the corridor, nervous not only about the fate of Potemkin, but about its . . . spittle. For, indeed, its last reel revolved around spittle. Climbing higher and higher, from the orchestra to the dress circle, from the mezzanine to the balcony, driven upward by the growth of excitement, I hungrily and anxiously drink in every sound of the applause. Then, like a thunderclap, it bursts from the entire audience. One — that is the scene with the red flag. Two — that’s the one of the guns of the Potemkin firing at the generals' headquarters in reply to the Odessa massacre. I continue to wander through the empty concentric halls. Not a soul. Even the ushers have gone inside, a most unusual event: here, in the State Academic Bolshoi Theater, for the first time in its history — the showing of a film. Now it will come — the third burst of applause as the Potemkin passes through the admiral’s squadron “flying the victorious flag of freedom." I am suddenly in a cold sweat. All other sensations are shocked out of existence. Spittle! My God! Spittle! Spittle! In the last-minute rush in the cutting room we had forgotten to splice the final reel. The sequence of the meeting of the squadron was made up of extremely short cuts. To make sure they would not be lost or get mixed up, I stuck them together by licking them with my tongue, and gave the reel to the assistant to splice. Then I took a look at the first version. Tore it apart. Looked at the second. Tore and changed that one, too. Suddenly I remember that my assistant did not have the time to splice up the final version. And by now it is out of the can and being threaded for projection. Film cement has not been substituted for spittle. Yes — I can tell by the music — the last reel has already started! How can I prevent disaster? In utter confusion I race through the semicircular hallways and spiral down the corkscrew stairs, possessed by a single desire, to bury myself in the cellar, in the earth, in oblivion. The break will come at any moment now! Bits of film will come flying out of the projector. The finale of the picture will be choked off, murdered. But then . . . unbelievable . . . a miracle!! The spittle holds! The film races through to the very end! Back in the cutting room we couldn't believe our own eyes — in our hands the short cuts came apart without the slightest effort, and yet they had been held together by some magic force as they ran, in one whole piece, through the projector . . ." — "Immoral Memories: An Autobiography" by Sergei Eisenstein, translated by Herbert Marshall, published in 1983

Today marks the 100th anniversary of the premiere of Battleship Potemkin, which took place at the Bolshoi Theatre in Moscow on December 21, 1925. Sergei Eisenstein on the film's premiere: "APPLAUSE LIKE THE CRACKLE of rifle shots echoes through the semi-circular corridors of the Bolshoi Theater. I am in the corridor, nervous not only about the fate of Potemkin, but about its . . . spittle. For, indeed, its last reel revolved around spittle. Climbing higher and higher, from the orchestra to the dress circle, from the mezzanine to the balcony, driven upward by the growth of excitement, I hungrily and anxiously drink in every sound of the applause. Then, like a thunderclap, it bursts from the entire audience. One — that is the scene with the red flag. Two — that’s the one of the guns of the Potemkin firing at the generals' headquarters in reply to the Odessa massacre. I continue to wander through the empty concentric halls. Not a soul. Even the ushers have gone inside, a most unusual event: here, in the State Academic Bolshoi Theater, for the first time in its history — the showing of a film. Now it will come — the third burst of applause as the Potemkin passes through the admiral’s squadron “flying the victorious flag of freedom." I am suddenly in a cold sweat. All other sensations are shocked out of existence. Spittle! My God! Spittle! Spittle! In the last-minute rush in the cutting room we had forgotten to splice the final reel. The sequence of the meeting of the squadron was made up of extremely short cuts. To make sure they would not be lost or get mixed up, I stuck them together by licking them with my tongue, and gave the reel to the assistant to splice. Then I took a look at the first version. Tore it apart. Looked at the second. Tore and changed that one, too. Suddenly I remember that my assistant did not have the time to splice up the final version. And by now it is out of the can and being threaded for projection. Film cement has not been substituted for spittle. Yes — I can tell by the music — the last reel has already started! How can I prevent disaster? In utter confusion I race through the semicircular hallways and spiral down the corkscrew stairs, possessed by a single desire, to bury myself in the cellar, in the earth, in oblivion. The break will come at any moment now! Bits of film will come flying out of the projector. The finale of the picture will be choked off, murdered. But then . . . unbelievable . . . a miracle!! The spittle holds! The film races through to the very end! Back in the cutting room we couldn't believe our own eyes — in our hands the short cuts came apart without the slightest effort, and yet they had been held together by some magic force as they ran, in one whole piece, through the projector . . ." — "Immoral Memories: An Autobiography" by Sergei Eisenstein, translated by Herbert Marshall, published in 1983

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Andrei Tarkovsky on Ingmar Bergman's Shame (1968): "Let us look at Bergman's Shame. The film doesn't contain a single 'actor's piece' for the performer to 'give away' the director's purpose, to play the conception of the persona, his attitude to it, to assess it in relation to the overall idea; and the latter is entirely hidden within the dynamic of the characters' lives, at one with it. The people in the film are crushed by circumstances; they act only in accordance with their situation, to which they themselves are subordinate; they make no attempt to proffer us any idea, any perspective on what is happening, or to draw any conclusion. All of that is left to the film as a whole, to the director's vision. And how superbly it is accomplished! You cannot say in simple terms who amongst them is good or bad. I could never say that von Sydow is a bad man. They are all partly good and partly bad, each in his own way. No judgements are passed, because there is no hint of tendentiousness in any of the actors, and the circumstances of the film are used by the director to explore the human possibilities which they test, and not for a moment in order to illustrate a thesis. Max von Sydow's character is developed with masterly power. He is a very good man; a musician; kind and sensitive. It turns out that he is a coward. But by no means every bold man is a good human being, and cowards are not always scoundrels. Of course, he is weak and irresolute. His wife is far stronger than he, so much so that she can overcome her fear. The hero lacks that strength. He is tormented by his own weakness, vulnerability, lack of resilience; he tries to hide, to cower in a corner, not to see and not to hear; and he does this like a child, naively and with complete sincerity. But when circumstances nevertheless force him to defend himself, he instantly turns into a scoundrel. He loses all that was best in him; but the drama and absurdity of his situation is that as he is now he becomes necessary to his wife, who, in her turn, looks to him for protection and succour instead of despising him as she always had. When he beats her about the face and says 'Get out!' she goes crawling after him. There is something here of the age-old idea of passive good and active evil; but its expression is immensely complex. At the beginning of the film the hero cannot even kill a chicken, but as soon as he has found a way of defending himself he becomes a cruel cynic. He has something of Hamlet: my view is that the Prince of Denmark perishes not as a result of the duel, when he dies physically, but immediately after the 'rat' scene, when he understands how irreversible are those laws of life which have forced him, a man of humanity and intellect, to act like the inferior people who inhabit Elsinore. Von Sydow is now a sinister character, afraid of nothing: he kills; will not raise a finger to save his fellows; pursues only his own interests. The point is that you have to be a person of great integrity to feel fear in the face of the foul necessity to kill and humiliate. And by shedding that fear and apparently acquiring courage, a person in fact loses his spiritual strength and intellectual honesty and parts from his innocence. War is the obvious catalyst for the cruel, anti-human elements in people. Bergman uses the war in this film exactly as he uses the heroine's illness in Through a Glass Darkly: to explore his view of man." — "Sculpting in Time" by Andrei Tarkovsky (translated by Kitty Hunter-Blair, 1987)

Andrei Tarkovsky on Ingmar Bergman's Shame (1968): "Let us look at Bergman's Shame. The film doesn't contain a single 'actor's piece' for the performer to 'give away' the director's purpose, to play the conception of the persona, his attitude to it, to assess it in relation to the overall idea; and the latter is entirely hidden within the dynamic of the characters' lives, at one with it. The people in the film are crushed by circumstances; they act only in accordance with their situation, to which they themselves are subordinate; they make no attempt to proffer us any idea, any perspective on what is happening, or to draw any conclusion. All of that is left to the film as a whole, to the director's vision. And how superbly it is accomplished! You cannot say in simple terms who amongst them is good or bad. I could never say that von Sydow is a bad man. They are all partly good and partly bad, each in his own way. No judgements are passed, because there is no hint of tendentiousness in any of the actors, and the circumstances of the film are used by the director to explore the human possibilities which they test, and not for a moment in order to illustrate a thesis. Max von Sydow's character is developed with masterly power. He is a very good man; a musician; kind and sensitive. It turns out that he is a coward. But by no means every bold man is a good human being, and cowards are not always scoundrels. Of course, he is weak and irresolute. His wife is far stronger than he, so much so that she can overcome her fear. The hero lacks that strength. He is tormented by his own weakness, vulnerability, lack of resilience; he tries to hide, to cower in a corner, not to see and not to hear; and he does this like a child, naively and with complete sincerity. But when circumstances nevertheless force him to defend himself, he instantly turns into a scoundrel. He loses all that was best in him; but the drama and absurdity of his situation is that as he is now he becomes necessary to his wife, who, in her turn, looks to him for protection and succour instead of despising him as she always had. When he beats her about the face and says 'Get out!' she goes crawling after him. There is something here of the age-old idea of passive good and active evil; but its expression is immensely complex. At the beginning of the film the hero cannot even kill a chicken, but as soon as he has found a way of defending himself he becomes a cruel cynic. He has something of Hamlet: my view is that the Prince of Denmark perishes not as a result of the duel, when he dies physically, but immediately after the 'rat' scene, when he understands how irreversible are those laws of life which have forced him, a man of humanity and intellect, to act like the inferior people who inhabit Elsinore. Von Sydow is now a sinister character, afraid of nothing: he kills; will not raise a finger to save his fellows; pursues only his own interests. The point is that you have to be a person of great integrity to feel fear in the face of the foul necessity to kill and humiliate. And by shedding that fear and apparently acquiring courage, a person in fact loses his spiritual strength and intellectual honesty and parts from his innocence. War is the obvious catalyst for the cruel, anti-human elements in people. Bergman uses the war in this film exactly as he uses the heroine's illness in Through a Glass Darkly: to explore his view of man." — "Sculpting in Time" by Andrei Tarkovsky (translated by Kitty Hunter-Blair, 1987)

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Wim Wenders on the "camera movement and blocking" in Wings of Desire (1987): Filmmaker Magazine: "What was your philosophy about camera movement and blocking in Wings of Desire?" Wenders: "As we very often had to “translate” the angels’ point of view, so to speak, we were extremely keen on moving the camera as much as possible. In the absence of Steadicam equipment we worked a lot on tracks, with dollies, cranes, jib-arms etc. But we also built ourselves devices so we could move through the air from one house to the next, for instance, and we shot the opening sequence on a helicopter, which was highly difficult in West Berlin at the time, as there were no private companies flying, just the Allies with their respective army pilots. We ended up shooting with a British pilot in an army helicopter without a proper camera mount. Today, you would do these things with gyroscopes and such. Blocking has always been my department. Henri [Alekan] kept out of it completely, and I did it with his operator, Agnès Godard. I have done shot lists for complicated sets, but usually I decide on location in the morning how we design the shots. I prefer to see the actors rehearse it, before I commit to any blocking. Camera moves weren’t the real challenge, though, for finding the angels’ points of view. It dawned on me early on that our camera had to do a more complex job. I told it to Henri. “Those angels have a very loving look at us humans. We have to find a way to teach our camera to look more lovingly.” Henri just stared at me as if I was out of my mind. “How do we do that?” Well, I didn’t know of course. But I figured we had to invest more care and love ourselves into every shot that represented what the angels saw. And that’s it, in the end. A camera can reflect on what you invest into its act of seeing. That sounds pretty lofty, I guess. But it does rub off, I tell you, if you try to imagine how angels would look at us. After all, they were some sort of metaphor for me for the better persons we carry inside ourselves, or for the children we somehow preserved in ourselves." — "“Imagine How Angels Would Look at Us”: Wim Wenders on Restoring Wings of Desire" by Jim Hemphill (Filmmaker Magazine, 2018)

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