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The political influences on Soviet cinema are traced from its pre-revolutionary heritage, through the Revolution and the golden years of the late 1920s through Second World War liberalization and the extraordinary repression of Stalin final years.The political influences on Soviet cinema are traced from its pre-revolutionary heritage, through the Revolution and the golden years of the late 1920s through Second World War liberalization and the extraordinary repression of Stalin final years.
The book provides an illuminating background of the political history of the Soviet cinema in the twenties.
Film lovers all over the world are familiar with the masterpieces of Eisenstein and Tarkovsky. These directors' unique achievements were embedded in a powerful process that began under Russia's last tsar and underwent several periods of blossoming: the bourgeois cinema in the 1910s, the revolutionary avant-garde in the 1920s, the Thaw in the 1950s, and the awakening of national cinemas in the 1960s and 1970s. The Historical Dictionary of Russian and Soviet Cinema is the first reference work of its kind in the English language devoted entirely to the cinema of the Russian Empire, the Soviet Union, and the post-Soviet period, including both the cinematic highlights and the mainstream. The cinemas of the former Soviet republics, including Ukraine, Belarus, Armenia, Georgia, Lithuania, and Latvia, are also represented with their most influential artists. Through a chronology, an introduction essay, a bibliography, and over 500 cross-referenced dictionary entries on filmmakers, performers, cinematographers, composers, producers, studios, genres, and outstanding films, this reference work covers the history of Russian and Soviet filmmaking from 1896 to 2007.
With a historical sweep that recent events have made definitive, the authors examine the influence of Soviet ideology on the presentation of social reality in films produced in the Soviet Union between the October Revolution and the final days of glasnost. Within the framework of an introduction that lays out the conceptual terminology used to describe that shifting ideological landscape, the authors analyze both the social groups appearing in the films and the relations of film directors and other film makers to state censorship and ideological control.
Peter Kenez's comprehensive study of the Soviet propaganda system, describes how the Bolshevik Party went about reaching the Russian people. Kenez focuses on the experiences of the Russian people. The book is both a major contribution to our understanding of the genius of the Soviet state, and of the nature of propaganda in the twentieth-century.
Sergei Parajanov (1924–90) flouted the rules of both filmmaking and society in the Soviet Union and paid a heavy personal price. An ethnic Armenian in the multicultural atmosphere of Tbilisi, Georgia, he was one of the most innovative directors of postwar Soviet cinema. Parajanov succeeded in creating a small but marvelous body of work whose style embraces such diverse influences as folk art, medieval miniature painting, early cinema, Russian and European art films, surrealism, and Armenian, Georgian, and Ukrainian cultural motifs. The Cinema of Sergei Parajanov is the first English-language book on the director's films and the most comprehensive study of his work. James Steffen provides a detailed overview of Parajanov's artistic career: his identity as an Armenian in Georgia and its impact on his aesthetics; his early films in Ukraine; his international breakthrough in 1964 with Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors; his challenging 1969 masterpiece, The Color of Pomegranates, which was reedited against his wishes; his unrealized projects in the 1970s; and his eventual return to international prominence in the mid-to-late 1980s with The Legend of the Surami Fortress and Ashik-Kerib. Steffen also provides a rare, behind-the-scenes view of the Soviet film censorship process and tells the dramatic story of Parajanov's conflicts with the authorities, culminating in his 1973–77 arrest and imprisonment on charges related to homosexuality. Ultimately, the figure of Parajanov offers a fascinating case study in the complicated dynamics of power, nationality, politics, ethnicity, sexuality, and culture in the republics of the former Soviet Union. Outstanding Academic Title, Choice Magazine
The golden age of Soviet cinema, in the years following the Russian Revolution, was a time of both achievement and contradiction, as reflected in the films of Eisenstein, Pudovkin, and Kuleshov. Tensions ran high between creative freedom and institutional constraint, radical and reactionary impulses, popular and intellectual cinema, and film as social propaganda and as personal artistic expression. In less than a decade, the creative ferment ended, subjugated by the ideological forces that accompanied the rise of Joseph Stalin and the imposition of the doctrine of Socialist Realism on all the arts. Soviet Cinema in the Silent Era, 1918–1935 records this lost golden age. Denise Youngblood considers the social, economic, and industrial factors that influenced the work of both lesser-known and celebrated directors. She reviews all major and many minor films of the period, as well as contemporary film criticism from Soviet film journals and trade magazines. Above all, she captures Soviet film in a role it never regained—that of dynamic artform of the proletarian masses.
Now faced with the "zero hour" created by a new freedom of expression and the dramatic breakup of the Soviet Union, Soviet cinema has recently become one of the most interesting in the world, aesthetically as well as politically. How have Soviet filmmakers responded to the challenges of glasnost? To answer this question, the American film scholar Andrew Horton and the Soviet critic Michael Brashinsky offer the first book-length study of the rapid changes in Soviet cinema that have been taking place since 1985. What emerges from their collaborative dialogue is not only a valuable work of film criticism but also a fascinating study of contemporary Soviet culture in general. Horton and Brashinsky examine a wide variety of films from BOMZH (initials standing for homeless drifter) through Taxi Blues and the glasnost blockbuster Little Vera to the Latvian documentary Is It Easy to Be Young? and the "new wave" productions of the "Wild Kazakh boys." The authors argue that the medium that once served the Party became a major catalyst for the deconstruction of socialism, especially through documentary filmmaking. Special attention is paid to how filmmakers from 1985 through 1990 represent the newly "discovered" past of the pre-glasnost era and how they depict troubled youth and conflicts over the role of women in society. The book also emphasizes the evolving uses of comedy and satire and the incorporation of "genre film" techniques into a new popular cinema. An intriguing discussion of films of Georgia, Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, and Kazakhstan ends the work.
One of the many unforeseen consequences of the fall of the Soviet Union has been the sudden collapse of the domestic film industry, probably the most privileged mass cultural medium of the Soviet Union. By the mid-1980s, some 150 feature films were produced annually for audiences numbering nearly four billion per year. Since 1991, however, cinema attendance has plummeted by a factor of at least one hundred, and the remnants of the once huge audiences now watch an overwhelming number of imported, mostly American, films. Revolt of the Filmmakers is the first account of Russia's film industry since this disastrous decline. According to Faraday, who was film correspondent for The Moscow Times during the mid-1990s, the turning point came during the years of perestroika, when Russian filmmakers achieved an unprecedented degree of freedom from managerial control. They immediately used their newfound liberty to dismantle the industry's central administrative structures in the name of artistic autonomy. Filmmakers were at last free to follow their own aesthetic criteria, and many began to orient their work entirely toward critical acclaim at festivals. But the unintended result of this revolution in the name of art was the alienation of the mass Russian audience. Today some filmmakers are attempting to regain a mass audience by celebrating and mythologizing national cultural identity, but the Russian film industry has never fully recovered from the "revolt" of the filmmakers. For this book Faraday has interviewed Russian filmgoers, critics, directors, and other industry insiders. Among those directors whose work he considers are Alexei Balabanov (The Castle), Nikita Mikhalkov (Burnt by the Sun), Karen Shaknazarov (American Daughter), Pyotr Todorovsky (Moscow Country Nights), and Marina Tsurtsumia (Only Death Comes for Sure). He also draws upon documentary evidence, including the Russian press and the diaries of Andrei Tarkovsky (The Sacrifice, Solaris). Few predicted that the loosening of state ideological and institutional controls would threaten the survival of Russia's once-mighty film industry. Even today Lenin's often-quoted, if apocryphal, declaration that "cinema is the most important of all the arts" remains emblazoned over the gateway to Mosfilm studios--but its relevance is in doubt at the start of a new millennium.
A fully updated new edition of this overview of contemporary Russia and the influence of its Soviet past.