Strike and the Divergence of Russian Silent Cinema
Note: This is the hundred-and-thirty-second in a series of historical/critical essays examining the best in film from each year. Essentially, I am watching films from the beginning of cinematic history that interest me and/or hold some critical or cultural impact. My personal, living list of favorites is being created at Mubi, showcasing five films per year. All this being explained, what follows is an examination of my second favorite 1925 film, STRIKE, directed by Sergei Eisenstein.
Sergei Eisenstein and the cultivation of his film theory as an academic and practical tool are well-documented in the canon of film history. His place at the forefront of a radical (hahaha) evolution of cinematic language that sprang forth in post-revolutionary Russia can sometimes, on the surface, cover up the filmic ideologies of Eisenstein’s contemporaries. Certain accounts may lump the directors of Russian silent cinema together as innovators of montage and collective casts. Although the primary figures of the era shared a zeal for their particular filmmaking philosophy and a state-sponsored message (that could also deviate, however), in fact Russia’s earliest masters took separate, nuanced approaches to their craft.
This is all to say that STRIKE, the true start of Eisenstein’s filmmaking career, was part of a transition in the mid-1920s that, in hindsight, marked Russia’s moviemaking artists as some of the most exciting of the period. The movie, and its “inferior” follow up BATTLESHIP POTEMKIN (1925, its slight “inferiority” still makes it great obviously, and I have a feeling I’m generally in the minority re: this opinion), serve as portals to a wide world of Russian cinema. But for the purposes of this piece, STRIKE will dovetail into the work of three other filmmakers: Vsevolod Pudovkin, Lev Kuleshov, and Dziga Vertov.
Eisenstein is known for his development of montage theory, and STRIKE, as his feature-length debut, was a bold introduction to his version of the concept. The celebrated trilogy of Eisenstein’s early work, STRIKE, BATTLESHIP POTEMKIN, and OCTOBER: TEN DAYS THAT SHOOK THE WORLD (1928), featured that aforementioned concept of a collective cast. There are no stars or main characters here; a select few characters recur in a broad ensemble drama. But unlike later works, in which Eisenstein paid special attention to mostly casting amateur actors or indeed people who had never been on camera before, STRIKE was populated with members of the Proletcult Theatre, a transition from Eisenstein’s theater days.
Eisenstein had once directed the Proletcult, a culmination of quick artistic development for him that began in earnest at the beginning of the ’20s. The groundwork for his meticulousness and ideology was laid before that, however. Eisenstein was born in 1898 in Latvia, then part of the Russian Empire. After moving and being passed around between his separated/divorced parents, he studied architecture and engineering. The groundwork was laid not only for the theater set design Eisenstein would take on as a career after fighting with the Red Army in the Bolshevik Revolution; it was also laid for the intricate and precise structure and editing of his films.
The chaos of STRIKE doesn’t obscure the obviously restrained and delicate hand of its director. The quick cuts of the montage and continual theme of cross cutting images of humans and animals that share their traits capitalized on film language in a way few, if any, had done before. I’ve seen arguments that claim Russian, and indeed international, audiences of 1925 may not have been familiar enough with the movies to truly feel the impact and relationships Eisenstein was drawing with his editing. I don’t know though, I have good faith in the audiences of 1925 and beyond; they probably got the message when they saw cows being slaughtered (in graphic detail) amid scenes of striking workers being beaten and gunned down.
Pudovkin is most commonly compared to Eisenstein. Also a former engineering student, he entered the film industry ahead of Eisenstein, just after World War I. Pudovkin made his directorial debut, however, in 1925 as well; the short film CHESS FEVER intercut acted scenes with footage of the 1925 Moscow chess tournament. But it was Pudovkin’s own silent era trilogy, referred to as his revolutionary trilogy (not unlike Eisenstein’s), that set him as a standard compare-and-contrast figure. MOTHER (1926), THE END OF ST. PETERSBURG (1927), and STORM OVER ASIA (1928) are viral, their montages building more slowly than Eisenstein’s and lurking under the surface until they erupt into overt mania. Pudovkin also, more famously, focused on individuals than the collective. His films are more ensemble-driven than many western films, but central figures of his movies drive their stories. Pudovkin maintained relative favor under the Stalin regime, also a far cry from Eisenstein’s own turbulent career heading into the sound era.
Now let’s talk about Kuleshov. Pudovkin claimed to have co-created the experiment that formed the concept we now call the “Kuleshov effect,” but Lev himself may be the progenitor to whom we can trace the montage theory as we know it. Kuleshov entered the film industry in 1916, and (co-)directed his first movie the next year. He taught the first film courses in Russia beginning in 1919; Eisenstein was his student for a short time at some point in the following years. In 1921, Kuleshov produced his very brief experiment, starring Russian matinee idol Ivan Mosjoukine. In this 45-second test, Mosjoukine looks fairly blankly just past camera. Kuleshov cuts from a bowl of soup to Mosjoukine. He cuts from a young girl in a casket to Mosjoukine (it’s the same shot of the actor). He cuts from a beautiful woman reclining on a couch to Mosjoukine. Then Kuleshov cuts between the three ostensible subjects of Mosjoukine’s gaze and the star himself. This experiment illustrated Kuleshov’s theory that no one shot imparts as much meaning as what surrounds it. The Kuleshov effect will probably sound similar to those familiar with Alfred Hitchcock’s illustration of the “nice old man” and the “dirty old man.”
And so this is probably Kuleshov’s great contribution. But, somewhat ironically, his own films were perhaps more conventional than those of Eisenstein and Pudovkin, and certainly Vertov. THE EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURES OF MR. WEST IN THE LAND OF THE BOLSHEVIKS (1924) is a great comedy skewering American sentiments of the Russians, and THE DEATH RAY (1925) is inventive sci-fi. BY THE LAW (1926), based on the Jack London short story “The Unexpected,” is a gripping survival drama; Kuleshov would take on American literature again with THE GREAT CONSOLER (1933), for which he pulled on the works of O. Henry. These films are not Hollywood pictures, certainly, but they’re somehow less…noticeable in their editing or narrative styles, an interesting diversion for the man who potentially invented the mechanism on which his radical contemporaries built their careers, as well as the element the budding avant-garde cinema movement was essentially based on.
Vertov, on the other hand, is not really avant-garde, although there is an overlap in approach, or lack thereof, to narrative film. But no, he is documentary style, or cinéma vérité, embodied. In fact, the whole theory of cinéma vérité is based on Vertov’s Cine-Eye concept. Truly the most radical of his Russian contemporaries, Vertov began editing newsreels in 1918, and worked on agitprop in the field of the Russian Civil War. In 1922, Vertov began the Kino-Pravda series; Kino-Pravda literally means film truth. This was the beginning of Vertov’s dedication to subverting the forms of film that had arisen since the medium’s initial purpose and wealth of “actualities.” He famously said drama was the “opiate of the masses.”
His Cine-Eye beliefs meant he saw film as a mechanism, truly; Vertov often used mechanical terms in his theory formulation. MAN WITH A MOVIE CAMERA (1929) was his true masterpiece, a city symphony “documentary” filled with the kinds of effects the aforementioned mechanics of camerawork and editing could bring about. It’s striking, and while not quite antithetical to Eisenstein, Vertov certainly spins out from the expectations his peers set. But like Eisenstein, he too fell out of favor; the pair were ultimately out of step with the Stalin regime, or at least not exactly in step.
Eisenstein returned from an unprecedented three-year sojourn through Europe and the Americas in 1933, a tremendous sign of faith in the Soviet Union’s foremost film artist. But when he returned, Eisenstein found it difficult to get projects off the ground, and was indeed assigned the rest of the films he would make in his career. ALEXANDER NEVSKY (1938) put him back into favor, but IVAN THE TERRIBLE, PART II (1945) laid him low just after the first part (1944) was tremendously received by Stalin. Eisenstein died in 1948 at age 50.
So, sure, I didn’t write much about STRIKE in this piece that’s ostensibly about the film. But let me be clear: it is the crown jewel in the whole of Russian silent cinema. STRIKE is a greater, more engaging illustration of the incredible innovation of the era than the more widely celebrated BATTLESHIP POTEMKIN and a film that, when taken in with the context of its place in a larger narrative, is only made stronger. Watch STRIKE and you will be bombarded with the pure visual promise of the moving picture medium.
