Visitor to a Museum ★★★★★

Visitor to a Museum was screened at the BFI, Lon­don as part of their KOS­MOS sea­son, the sec­ond instal­ment of their Russ­ian cin­ema sea­son KINO.


Com­par­isons with Andrei Tarkovsky’s Stalker are near impos­si­ble to avoid when review­ing Vis­i­tor To A Museum. From its night­mare vision of mankind sur­viv­ing amongst the cat­a­strophic con­se­quences of a nuclear acci­dent, and its cen­tral pro­tag­o­nists weary search to find sal­va­tion within an unreach­able ter­ri­tory (or the mere fact that direc­tor Kon­stan­tin Lopushan­sky assisted Tarkovsky on his sec­ond foray into sci­ence fic­tion), the two films share many qualities…except one, Vis­i­tor To A Museum has never gained the world­wide noto­ri­ety of Stalker, an acco­lade its dystopian para­ble depict­ing the fall of com­mu­nism undoubt­edly deserves.

A nameless ‘tourist’ arrives in a devastated town, intent on undertaking an infamous journey to an ancient museum, now lost to the harsh ecological disaster which has ravaged this land. This mysterious building is only accessible at low tide, with many having perished whilst pursuing this pilgrimage, yet the intellectual treasures it houses have become almost legendary and regarded by many to outweigh the peril involved.

The tourist checks in at a local guest house, an ex weather station, where he waits for the opportune moment to beginning his perilous expedition to this mythical monument of human progress. Nearby, this former meteorological station is a community of nuclear fallout victims who are regarded as little more than infected cockroaches by the locals, crawling up from beneath the rubble and desecrating this once prosperous area with their hideous appearances. These uneducated and malformed masses are prone to religious hysteria and irrational fears of the powers that be, whilst their subservient behaviour and limited intellect has resulted in many of them being chosen by the few ‘healthy’ survivors as servants for their materialistic needs.

The tourist is not as judgemental as the townsfolk and attempts to embrace these lowly peasants as equals. He’s a man haunted by guilt, not for his own actions but by those of all mankind; however, he remains devout in the belief that humanity will lift itself from this self-made pit of despair and achieve redemption through the power of science and learning. His faith in the redemptive qualities of mankind and acceptance of the area’s ‘savages’ has made him something of a messiah to these deformed children of the apocalypse, with his planned journey becoming more and more significant by the day…

Once you see beyond the film’s recognisable use of sepia tones and soft lighting to present this futuristic world, as well as the familiar device of a mysterious ‘building’ in which our protagonist must venture to for answers (coupled with most of the film’s action being filmed in once prosperous factories of the Soviet Union), there is much more at the heart of Visitor To A Museum than mere similarities with Tarkovsky’s seminal sci-fi film, Stalker.

The film’s heavy-handed but meticulously detailed approach in creating this ecologically devastated world builds a unique atmosphere, which feels incredibly fresh and inventive when compared with the increasingly formulaic approach of modern science fiction films, which often spend more time imitating others than crafting their own dystopian world.

Visitor To A Museum relies heavily on its score to achieve the distinctive mood of despair that consumes its world; combining natural and artificial sounds to create an unavoidable soundtrack which amplifies the film’s numerous haunting qualities and general feeling of anxiety. Successfully amalgamating orchestrated strings with harsh electronic rhythms, this unsympathetic splicing of earthy noises with artificial, computerised reverberations seems to fit perfectly with the film’s barren landscape, a world where mankind’s meddling has overpowered nature and destroyed the purity and grace of its once flourishing land.

Made during Perestroika (a political movement within the Communist Party of the Soviet Union during 1980s, its literal meaning is ‘restructuring’, referring to the restructuring of the Soviet political and economic system), when Soviet economic and belief systems were showing signs of failing, Lopushansky’s film has perfectly depicted the sentiments of a country undergoing a time of great instability. This obsession with scientific advancement within the USSR was probably most prominent during the Space Race (a series of events which led to a cultural obsession with all things astronomical and an abundance of great sci-fi films), yet, ironically, Visitor To A Museum has little in the way of space exploration and its desolate landscape doesn’t house any ravenous alien species. Instead, we are presented with an unrecognisable world savaged by our own greed and neglect, for in Visitor To A Museum we are in fact the ‘aliens’ and, indeed, the ones who should be feared.

The film has often been referred to as an unabashed Christian allegory for a post Chernobyl future, where man has created their own hell through an unstoppable pursuit of power and knowledge. During the Cold War, science and material culture had replaced religion, but, as the economy began to crumble, people fled back to their old beliefs, an issue represented within the film by the horrendous way in which the locals disregard these infected casualties and their spiritual beliefs. Yet, when the USSR finally collapsed, there was a surge of church building, a sure sign of where this newly placed trust in science and communism dispersed to. The film’s ‘visitor’ initially embodies the quest for power once evident in the Cold War era of the USSR, but when his journey becomes eclipsed by spiritualism, the tone of the film, much like in Russia during the Brezhnev era, noticeably shifts to a more pious, godly atmosphere, which twists and moulds the action into an all together different but no less enjoyable film.

Visitor To A Museum takes the horrors of Chernobyl, the inevitable Soviet implosion and the economic failings of mass production within Russia and creates an apocalyptic setting, far more devastating than anything created before, or indeed after its release. The amplifying of these social issues help the film create a nightmarish vision of the future that, at the time, was a genuinely real concern; however, considering our current environmental predicament and economic crisis, this cautionary tale is just as appropriate now. Truly a remarkable portrait of society at its weakest.

Stalker ★★★★★

Stalker was screened at the BFI, Lon­don as part of their KOS­MOS sea­son, the sec­ond instal­ment of their Russ­ian cin­ema sea­son KINO.

Described by Ing­mar Bergman as “the great­est of us all,” no Soviet sci-fi sea­son would be com­plete with­out at least one of Andrei Tarkovsky’s sem­i­nal clas­sics from this spec­u­la­tive genre of film­mak­ing. Whilst Solaris (1972) may be bet­ter know to West­ern audi­ences (due pri­mar­ily to the Steven Soder­bergh remake star­ring George Clooney), Stalker (1979), Tarkovsky’s sec­ond foray into sci­ence fic­tion, is per­haps one of the most revered films to emerge from the repres­sive regime of the Soviet Union.

Set in a timeless dystopian future, three characters, known simply as Writer, Professor and the film’s titular Stalker, leave their world of near uninhabitable destitution and embark on a perilous journey into ‘The Zone’ – a forbidden region, steeped in mystery and heavily guarded by those who fear its power.

Within the confines of this furtive, spiritual territory is a place merely described as ‘The Room’, a building purported to house an unimaginable power that makes the inner most wishes of those who enter it come true. The Writer is here in search of inspiration and the Professor is determined to make a “discovery.” The Stalker is their guide, a clean and intellectually innocent man, who gives himself completely to his task, taking refuge in The Zone, seeing it as a peaceful and deeply sacred area in which he can escape his desolate life, his nagging wife and his deformed child. However, The Zone is an unforgiving region which must be respected by those who enter its lush, green but eerily bleak landscape, especially the unfulfilled ‘tourists’ who hope to reap the rewards of this supposedly enchanted Room…

The scale of Stalker is nothing short of epic. Tarkovsky’s bewildering study of the human condition, set against this apocalyptic backdrop, presents us with a sense of inadequacy towards our own natural behaviour, which soon overshadows the initial horror conjured up by these desolate surroundings. This deeply pessimistic allegory illustrates how we, as a species, are doomed to collapse inwardly due to our negative outlook on life and a dependence on fictitious spiritualism to save us from our own self inflicted traumas – it depicts a timeless future which was as appropriate then as it is now.

For the viewer, the existence and the origins of The Zone and its Room seem almost mythical – despite their physical presence within the film, they appear to solely serve as a mirror, revealing the true personalities of our central characters through the desires they wish to materialise within this sacred tomb. The Writer’s search for inspiration is questionable due to his nihilistic attitude towards life and his disregard for the respect which must be paid to this foreign land. Instead of lacking inspiration, this despondent dreamer appears to lack an inherent desire to live, recklessly fighting against the Stalker’s authority and unwilling to play by the rules. The Professor’s quest for knowledge is uprooted by the climactic revelation of his true motivation for this journey, whilst the Stalker himself, with his fearful reluctance to even enter the Room (believing his job to guide people here is a righteous one and of greater importance than his own selfish whims) asks more questions than it answers.

Tarkovsky’s attempts to locate the spiritual message behind Stalker’s rich tapestry of ideas uses a wide range of close-up shots to allow the audience to gaze into the eyes of the characters, allowing us a gateway into their souls, and revealing the fears and desires of these deeply troubled men. These numerous compositions of pure human emotions and inner turmoil creates a strong backbone from which the film’s truly affecting, metaphysical narrative and philosophical message can resonate.

Despite being a science fiction film, little attention is paid to the futuristic gadgets and otherworldly paraphernalia normally associated with the genre, allowing Tarkovsky to strip down this science based medium of film to its bare thematic essentials. Therefore, the film’s powerful social warning about the direction the world is heading in is allowed to flourish, whilst also offering a worrying insight into our over reliance on fate, religion, luck, or whatever other false deity you decide to place your confidence in, instead of heeding these obvious concerns and addressing the issues at hand.

Shot mainly around the disused and deserted factories of the derelict industrial heartland of Tallinn, Estonia, Stalker’s image of the future is one ravaged by material greed where the population is desperate to escape the repressive regime of an over controlling government. It draws obvious parallels with the numerous problems of the Soviet Union, whilst acting as an interesting precursor to the Chernobyl disaster, with the uninhabited Zone baring a remarkable resemblance to the devastated Ukrainian town. The numerous tanks and items of heavy machinery shown devoured by vegetation also seem to symbolise nature fighting against mankind’s destructive habits.

The dreamlike qualities of this forsaken world are painterly presented through colour film within The Zone (capturing its floral glory), whilst the world outside is shot using sepia tones that perfectly express the magnitude of despair felt by its inhabitants. Combined with some subtly glacial camera pans and Eduard Artemyev emotive score (beautifully amalgamating Eastern tones with distorted Western rhythms), these technical astute elements create an enchanting, trance like atmosphere around the film.

Whilst maybe not Tarkovsky’s greatest film, it is a testament to his overall body of work that Stalker still remains a towering achievement in science fiction and as necessary now as ever. Transcending the usual clichés of the genre, Stalker creates an elegant, challenging but thoroughly rewarding film, whose vision of the future successfully combines important remnants from the past, an insight in to our troubled present and a worrying vision of what might be.

Cosmic Voyage ★★★★☆

Cos­mic Voy­age was screened at the BFI, Lon­don as part of their KOS­MOS sea­son, the sec­ond instal­ment of their Russ­ian cin­ema sea­son KINO.

Kino, The BFI’s Soviet sci­ence fic­tion sea­son is well under­way. A cel­e­bra­tion of com­mu­nist film­mak­ing and Russ­ian film pio­neers, the event has so far been an intox­i­cat­ing insight into the power of cin­ema as a form of pro­pa­ganda, but also, more impor­tantly, as an immer­sive and excit­ing method of escapism.

The screen­ing of Cos­mic Voy­age was pre­ceded by two related fea­tures. First a silent movie from the Russ­ian empire first released in 1912, Voy­age To The Moon, com­plete with live piano accom­pa­ni­ment which amazed the audi­ence with its whim­si­cal por­trayal of space travel. Next up was a delight­ful ‘60s doc­u­men­tary offer­ing a infec­tiously hilar­i­ous and dated view of how the space race would result in legions of Soviet fam­i­lies liv­ing in har­mony on the moon, wav­ing back at their impe­r­ial ene­mies whilst they pros­pered in this des­o­late world. Both per­fectly set up the evening’s main event – Cos­mic Voy­age

Released shortly after the spectacularly popular Aelita: Queen Of Mars in 1924, Cosmic Voyage’s plot is a simple tale of professional rivalry set against a science based backdrop, primarily intended to showcase the engineering and astrological advancements of the Soviet Union.

The year is 1946 (only ten years in the future – little would the audience have known about how different things would be – at that time) and the Tsiolkovsky Centre for Space Exploration is prepared for this fantastic journey into the unknown. A strikingly large ramp sprouts from the building, supported by an endless wall of scaffolding, spreading miles into the horizon, like a rollercoaster stretching out far past the reach of mankind. Yet, as an impressive feat of engineering, it’s nothing compared to the rocket ships housed in the station’s hanger – large towering ships of iron and steel which proudly fill this expansive space.

The imminent excursion is plagued by uncertainty. Sensibly Karin led an effort to test the effects of space travel by sending up a rabbit, but when it returned with an exploded heart, due to a cardiac rupture, concerns were obviously raised. However, Pavel Sedikh raised a compelling counter argument that he “is not a rabbit” and insisted the program proceed as planned. Yet a brilliant mind like his was deemed to valuable to risk, so Air Army captain Viktor Orlov is instead promoted to the mission, a decision which angers Sedikh. To prevent further problems, the launch is moved forward to catch the old scientist off guard and Orlov begins his rigorous preparations.

Victor’s younger brother, Andryusha, is a keen admirer of Sedikh’s work and believes this plan to out manoeuvre the aging professor is devious and underhand. He sneaks out to inform Sedikh of this conspiracy, believing that, as he built and designed these rockets, he should be made aware of such treacherous behaviour. A plan is conceived, and despite some unforeseen circumstances, the two of them end up onboard this towering rocket and begin their ascent to the moon. After a mildly unsuccessful landing, an epic quest unfolds to announce to the world below the extraordinary feat they have accomplished…

Cosmic Voyage is perhaps one of the most enjoyable film’s to emerge from the silent era. Successfully merging the childlike amazement of fantasy adventures with a serious scientific approach, Cosmic Voyage is an incredibly creditable film which gloriously realises the hopes and dreams of the Soviet space programme. A socialist-realist melodrama that manages to capture the imaginations of young and old, rich and poor, and everyone else prepared to marvel in its sumptuously presented, imaginative journey into the then unknown

Considering the era in which Cosmic Voyage was created (first theatrically released in 1935), the technical standard is impressively high quality. It’s hard to imagine a time when the world’s population had not been treated to the site of Neil Armstrong taking mankind’s first step onto the moon, so for the lunar sets to capture the desolate scenery so well, whilst still inspiring a delightful sense of excitement, has to be commended. However, the film’s most astonishing achievement is the set design of the Tsiolkvsky’s station. Using miniature models to visually express the grandness of the space craft’s, and the magnitude of the feat at hand, it still looks as impressive now as it must have over eighty years ago. From the scientific accuracies of their design to the seamless transition between their presence on screen and the real life sets the actors perform on, you honestly believe that these two artificial worlds are one and the same – a feat that isn’t always accomplished in even today’s CGI laden movies.

Unfortunately, there are moments when this amazement evoked by the production values is dashed – and the sudden realisation that what you’re viewing was produced decades before the use of personal computers, let alone green screen technology. The film’s stop motion, used to present the weightlessness of the moon’s surface, is noticeably dated. This is partly down to the success of the film’s previous effects, but even compared to the animation of the time, it feels shoddy and poorly conceived, and whilst elements like these can sometimes appear as charming features to a constantly aging relic of film, here it just feels like a misguided step that ruins the hard work preceding it.

This speculative medium is renowned for being used by the Soviet Union to promote political agendas. Cosmic Voyage was commissioned by the Communist Youth League to inspire the younger generations with a glimpse of the adventures they could well be having in the not too distant future. Yet whilst the film may have all the trappings of a government issued recruitment video for young scientific minds, the Communist Party’s arbiters of culture were less than impressed, deeming much of the film as needlessly frivolous and contrary to the dictates of Socialist Realism – resulting in the film being pulled from theatres. With hindsight, and an overwhelming appreciation of the visual splendour of Cosmic Voyage, it’s clear that this adventurous Kino classic is more than just style and spectacle but instead a glorious insight into the promising future many Soviets believed lay ahead, despite the country’s numerous failings. It could be argued, however, that the rebellious nature of the arrogant scientist and his young companion makes Cosmic Voyage a mildly revolutionary film, with these two ambitious but repressed men fighting against the conformists who aim to hold them back from their goal.

You couldn’t imagine a better introduction to the early years of Soviet science fiction than Cosmic Voyage. Combining both visual spectacle and a strong communist message about the alleged great red power of the East, this silent movie needs few words to express its historical importance or its marvellous spirit of adventure.