As noted by Zorkaia, Riazanov has been known to use handheld cameras and natural settings in order to achieve more realistic depictions of everyday life, also sometimes exchanging colour for black and white film, creating a kind of neorealist atmosphere (Zorkaia 1973: 37). She notes that despite the almost documentary-style depiction of current social issues, thanks to the snowflakes falling from the city sky the humble settings appear somehow magical (Zorkaia 1973: 37). The sheer humanity and warmth of Riazanov’s films often had a reassuring and calming effect on the Soviet people. Because of this, some critics (as in the case of Dobrenko’s assessment of Karnaval’naia) later accused him of conspiring with the Soviet authorities. Riazanov response was that he would be really happy if he had managed to make life more bearable for people. After all, the nature of carnivalesque laughter is reaffirming and irreverent; it is ambiguous, polyphonic, multidimensional and as contradictory as life itself. For this reason Riazanov professed his fondness for tragicomedy, considering many of his films (such as those mentioned above, with the exception of Karnaval’naia) to be sad comedies, almost tragicomedies. He believes that tragicomedy is the genre closest to life, reflecting all its richness – from its funny to its sad side, from the farcical to the grotesque and the tragic (2005: 100).
The first possible influence that comes to mind here is the sad comedies of Charlie Chaplin, Chaplin being the most politically conscious of the early film comedians,
‘combining pathos and an essentially tragic view of life’ and making people laugh and cry in painful self-realization (Vogel 2005: 520). Again, many of Chaplin’s films were made during periods of war (the two world wars, in fact) and during the inter-war period of depression; in other words, during periods of global and a great many national crises.
In 1973 Zorkaia had already claimed that ‘[Riazanov’s] favourite genre is tragicomedy, which best reflects the contrasts of real life’ (1973: 37). Furthermore, she comments on the director’s frequently expressed admiration for Italian neorealism (Zorkaia 1973: 37). In a later interview, in 1976, as well as in his memoirs (2005) Riazanov insists emphatically that he was inspired by Italian neorealist films, which
‘derive their appeal from their wonderful blend of tragedy and comedy’ (Istiushina 1976:
17). Riazanov admits that he finds the humanism of the Italian film masters highly
appealing (2005: 63), and it is true that his films are comparable to some neorealist or shot in the tradition of Italian neorealism later Italian film classics.
Roberto Rossellini’s Roma cità aperta / Rome Open City (1945),90 because of its appealing melodramatic plot, enjoyed immense success around the world (Cook 1996:
427). As noted by Cook, the film set the paradigm for Italian neorealism: for its social commitment and humanistic point of view and the parameters of its almost documentary and improvisatory standard (Cook 1996: 428). He also observes that neorealist films often lapse into sentimentality, and because of this have been labelled ‘male weepies’ by Raymond Durgnant (in Cook 1996: 437). Their influence on international cinema, particularly on French New Wave and New Latin American Cinema, has been enormous.
Peter Bondanella, when commenting on Rossellini’s Roma, has also observed that:
Beneath the surface of the work, which often seems closer to a newsreel than to a fictional narrative, a profoundly tragicomic vision of life juxtaposes melodramatic moments or instances of comic relief and dark humour with the most tragic human experiences to reconstruct the reality of a crucial moment in Italian history.
(Bondanella 2009: 68).
Again, the neorealist style and aesthetic is that of tragicomedy, melodrama and black humour, born during times of crisis and social change. One finds Bondanella’s analysis also applicable to Riazanov’s films Vokzal and Zabytaia melodia. They have such a grey, neorealist, almost documentary look, representing faithfully the joys of everyday living in 1980s Soviet Russia. In both films there is a constant shift between comic and tragic perspectives. Both mix melancholy and sadness with hope and humanistic concerns, and in the end resort to melodrama.
A filmmaker mentioned by Riazanov time and again is Federico Fellini, and it is obvious that he greatly admired Fellini’s work. In 1973 Riazanov had to work with one of Fellini’s former producers, Dino De Laurentiis, on his Neveroiatnye prikliuchenia italiantsev v Rossii / The Unbelievable Adventures of the Italians in Russia, a co-production with Italy. Of course, one has to ask if Fellini’s oeuvre was a source of inspiration, something and someone to aspire to? Riazanov has admitted his enduring admiration of Fellini’s most popular films, La strada / The Road (1954)91 and La notti di
90 From now on I shall refer to the film as Roma.
91 From now on I shall refer to the film as La strada.
Cabiria / The Nights of Cabiria (1957)92 (Riazanov 2005: 65). In these two films Fellini evolves beyond his neorealist origins. They represent a move towards psychological introspection, yet, as noted by Bondanella, Fellini never abandoned the neorealist belief in human solidarity and honesty (2009: 127).
The Italian master’s films were greatly admired in the former Soviet bloc. His interviews and books on cinema were quickly translated and disseminated, available to connoisseurs and movie-goers alike. As noted by Iordanova, contrary to popular belief, people in socialist countries were not deprived of the best in Western art; quite the opposite in fact: they were able to focus solely on the best works created in the West.
Somewhat paradoxically, thanks to censorship, they were spared from the worst: ‘the only thing off limits in the socialist countries was mainstream Western mass culture, […]
particularly uninhibited violence and pornography’ (Iordanova 2003: 21). Rather unwittingly, of course, this helped to create an idealized picture of life in the West, and of its cultural products. By the mid 1950s, when Riazanov began his career as a comedy filmmaker, Fellini and Michelangelo Antonioni had transcended the neorealist mode by turning it inward ‘so that the object of attention became not society but the human self’, something that Cook has appropriately labelled ‘introspective neorealism’ (1996: 437).
When examining Riazanov’s tragicomedies one finds some shared affinities and sensibilities with Fellini. Like the Italian filmmaker, Riazanov prefers well-rounded, complex characters. Both seem to share an acute awareness of human and social contradictions. As noted by Bondanella, La strada is more of a fairy tale or fable than a dramatic account of character development or narrative action (2009: 148). The road in the movie is a metaphor for a quest, a journey, and search for meaning in life.
Like Antonioni and Fellini before him, in his 1980s films Riazanov becomes concerned with the failure of communication between human beings and the resulting spiritual poverty of existence. In the two films mentioned, Fellini achieves a feeling of mystery through a keen sense of the unexpected and the unpredictable in everyday life. In both Cabiria and La strada there is salvation by grace, represented as a moment of certain belief in the beauty of human existence, achieved through suffering (Bondanella 2009: 148). As noted by Bondanella, both these Fellini films also mark a return to melodrama (2009: 127). Such tendencies and elements can be found in Vokzal: the same
92 From now on I shall refer to the film as Cabiria.
sense of the unexpected in everyday life; the belief in humanity and salvation through suffering; and comparable shifts from comedy to melodrama and tragedy. After all, as also noted by Bondanella, despite being an important art director Fellini was also a great comedy genius, and like the majority of Italian directors felt most comfortable making comedies and tragicomedies (2009: 180). In his 1980s tragicomedies Riazanov, like Fellini, articulates the tragicomic sense of life, with the dehumanization of society through the disintegration of personal relationships owing to people’s inability to communicate or because of social constraints. For example, Vokzal is in many ways is similar to Fellini’s La strada: it is a rather dramatic, even melodramatic, tragicomedy of self-discovery. Also, like Fellini’s Cabiria, Vokzal is a film about finding grace and hope beyond hope, where and when it is least expected. This is why one of the protagonists, played by Liudmila Gurchenko, is called ‘Vera / Hope’. As noted earlier, there are also Russian literary intertextual references, like Platon (played so convincingly by Basilashvili).
In Zabytaia melodia Riazanov comes close to Fellini’s earlier films’ complexity and sensibility thanks to Leonid’s character’s Pirandellian qualities. One can argue that, just like Fellini’s earlier films, Zabytaia melodia is also about the existential impossibility of happiness – the tragedy of the human condition, owing to the irreconcilable contradiction between one’s ‘social mask’ (that is, one’s social, public role or ‘character mask’) and one’s private ‘true face’: the individual’s subconscious, dreams, aspirations and instincts.93 Because of the surreal scenes in Zabytaia melodia, in an interview with Iuri Korshak Riazanov describes the film as a ‘phantasmagoric musical tragicomedy’ (1987:
12). Here he also claims that Zabytaia melodia results from the offshoots of nineteenth-century officialdom (a tsarist kind of bureaucracy) in modern day Soviet Russia, and that the film follows Gogol’s and Saltykov-Shchedrin’s footsteps by criticizing in a similar way the ubiquitous government bureaucracy, its corruption and nepotism. It is also possible then to argue that, eventually, Zabytaia melodia collapses into similar kind of black humour to Gogol’s short horror stories, such as Vii, for example, being situated in the same kind of nightmarish, oneiric, supernatural world.
In the 1960s Fellini’s films also became increasingly extravagant, even baroque
‘surreal phantasmagorias’; yet, they made some shocking revelations about the most
93 See Bondanella on early Fellini, particularly his comparison between Fellini and Pirandello (2009: 139).
secretive, hidden, negative sides of Italian society, exposing its decadence and degradation.94 The same can be said for Riazanov’s Zabytaia melodia. Like Fellini’s La strada, Zabytaia melodia is realistic in form but essentially allegorical in content, and its topics are similar to those of La dolce vita: the corruption and moral degradation of those at the top of the social ladder, only this time the target is the ‘red Soviet bourgeoisie’.
Like Fellini, Riazanov equates his protagonist’s internal, personal contradictions with those of a society in the midst of deep spiritual (and ideological) crisis. Leonid is torn between two women who allegorically represent two opposing worldviews and social currents: the exciting, associated with his wife – old, familiar, but loveless world of compromise and material comforts – and the unpredictable new order, represented by his younger mistress. In Fellini’s La dolce vita the main protagonist also has to choose between women that stand for opposing worldviews and social classes, and he too makes the wrong choice. Riazanov employs here the genre of melodrama, a genre that facilitates a parallel between private and social contradictions.
Louise McReynolds and Joan Neuberger have argued that just like psychoanalysis melodrama also became increasingly preoccupied with ‘the return of the repressed’, in a form that directly linked the private sphere with social and political life (McReynolds &
Neuberger 2002: 8). To this Zabytaia melodia adds black, surreal, Fellini-like comedy, instrumental in the representation of Leonid’s tortured nightmarish, psychological world that exposes his contradictions, hidden secrets and fears, and sense of guilt. After La dolce vita it became increasingly difficult to separate fantasy from reality in Fellini’s films. In Zabytaia melodia there is also interplay between fantasy and reality, on the one hand, and between the mysterious and the oneiric, on the other. Riazanov represents the split (Pirandellian) personality of his main protagonist, Leonid, as a constant interplay between his imagination and reality. Thus he provides the public with two perspectives on Leonid’s actions – one is the hero’s fantasy or how he would like to behave (his
94 In the 1950s Fellini rejected Cesare Zavattini’s belief that neorealism should be only about the life of the poor as rigid and artistically limiting. He was more interested in comparisons between the decadent life of the rich and the healthier outlook of the poor, through the investigation of his heroes’ psychological worlds.
Fellini’s films became increasingly provocative and controversial, relying more on surreal, dark humour. A turning point in the director’s oeuvre was his discovery of Carl Jung’s works on myth, through his psychoanalyst Dr Ernst Bernhard in 1960 (as mentioned earlier, according to Propp, fairy tales also represent mythical conventions through which people try to make sense of the chaos in life). After this discovery his films became hallucinatory, oneiric and controversial surreal satires (see, for example, his highly self-referential 8½, 1963). He then moved on to the world of self-reflexive fantasy (Cook 1996:
608). However, even by La dolce vita (1960) Fellini had explored the realms of surreal exaggeration and the absurd.
hidden instincts and wishes), and the other is how he actually behaves in reality (his public mask of a conformist bureaucrat, who says what his boss would like to hear).
There is also an oneiric scene in Zabytaia melodia, representing Leonid’s troubled subconscious and reflecting his mixed feelings on the probability of losing his promotion and his fears that perestroika will bring an end to the bureaucratic life of privilege and pretence. In the dream Leonid sees himself as a street musician playing his forgotten melody for flute, whilst Lida is bringing him food. One of his colleagues is arguing with a passerby that it is better to let the bureaucrats beg on the streets than to let them destroy whatever little is left intact in the country. Another colleague is playing the accordion on the metro, singing a song about the hardship of the unemployed bureaucrats. This dream exposes Leonid’s fears. He sees himself together with the rest of his colleagues on the metro, instead of in a chauffer driven car. The bureaucrats’ beloved desks and telephones are also there in one of the trains (symbolically on their way out). Leonid observes with surprise and undoubted pleasure how the two women in his life kiss one another, and then turn to him to form a ‘harmonious love triangle’.95 Of course, this is the most desirable outcome Leonid can dream of. The episode is a mocking revelation of Leonid’s confused psychological world, in which he tries to reconcile dreams with reality. However, from the dream it becomes clear that Leonid will choose a life of comfort and privilege over one of love in poverty.
There is also a surreal scene of purgatory after Leonid’s clinical death, where, (possibly also) in a Tarkovsky-like style,96 he is reprimanded by his parents for the betrayal of his roots, that is, his former dreams and ideals. Nevertheless, Riazanov seems to sympathize with Leonid. Behind the mask of bureaucratic self-importance there is actually a rather old-fashioned, romantic, and vulnerable man, far from sure of himself.
And this is what charms Lida, his mistress, and not his clumsy attempts to seduce her with rare foods. He is depicted as a weak, tortured individual, a conformist for whom the decision-making process is a painful experience, a man whose heart is not in his job, and yet he has succumbed to the world of privilege and power. This is why in purgatory he is reprimanded by his mother for his self-betrayal. There he sees others who, like him, await
95 According to Evgenii Tsymbal’s account, then assistant director to Riazanov, the scene, together with the texts of the songs, was written in one night almost at the end of filming. The next morning Riazanov read it to the whole crew. After their enthusiastic reaction and encouragement everything was organized quickly and shot only in a day (communicated via email in Dec 2010).
96 Noted by Ellen Chances (1993: 37).
their judgement day. Amongst them are soldiers, heroes from Afghanistan, cosmonauts, firemen from Chernobyl – all, according to MacFadyen, victims of Soviet (utopian) dogma (2003: 89). One can argue that, similar to Detochkin and Platon, then, that they are all holy fools, but more than anything they are victims of a morally flawed system.
Riazanov asks some very uncomfortable questions here, such as is it justified to die in the name of an idea, a utopian ideology, for one’s country or for the government of the day?
This line of questioning led to a general disillusionment with ideology and utopia in early post-Communist Russia.
As reflected in Zabytaia melodia, by the mid 1980s there was no longer any confidence in the government. Even Gorbachev believed that Soviet society was in need of regeneration (Attwood 1993: 95). The fact that Riazanov, Soviet Russia’s most popular comedy filmmaker, had turned to dark humour and tragedy by the late 1980s is in itself representative of the Soviets’ disenchantment with the system.