On the cinema screen, death comes in many forms, most of them violent, bloody
and devoid of meaning. Rarely is the subject matter treated with respect and
understanding. It's almost ironic that we're force-fed a steady diet of
non-death by Hollywood, given that the real thing is hardly a commercial
proposition. To cross this boundary you have to look elsewhere, to Europe and
films like Mother and Son. Alexander Sokurov's remarkable, self-indulgent
production does more than pass comment on this forbidden divide, in every frame
it exudes a sense of our Earthly purgatory.
In choosing a visually effective setting for his mortal drama, Sokurov goes
with the desolate steppes of central Russia. A place untroubled by the dread
hand of Man, here the Mother (Gudrun Geyer) and the Son (Alexei Ananishnov) have
only each other. Turning through the final pages of her illness, the Mother is
utterly dependent upon her lone offspring. Fortunately the blood bond between
them is strong and his ministrations bear no weight of resentment. As she slips
in and out of sleep, blurring the reality of her situation, he continues to
tenderly reassure. At a deeper level both know that their final separation
nears.
The singular aspect of Mother and Son, the one that grabs everyone's
attention, is the startling photography of Alexi Fyodorov. Shooting through a
complex sequence of lenses, filters and mirrors, he comes breathtakingly close
to achieving the textural depth of a decent oil painting. The results of this
experimentation are dream-like, softly tonal images that linger in the optic
nerve. Fyodorov's camera rests so long between edits that you begin to explore
the richness of his composition, discovering structure within the superb design.
The images captured have in themselves an intensity, an emotional trust that
steadies the anorexic script of Yuri Arabov.
In step with this visual poetry, Sokurov masses a subtle sequence of natural
and artificial sounds. Around the protagonists swirls a troubled weather, as if
spirits are gathering to carry away the Mother's last breath. Presaging change,
thunder rumbles in the distance, wind catches long grass and trees, dust becomes
twisted into devils. These noises, together with serene birdsong, filter through
Mother and Son. At the very same time snatches of music appear and fade
away, the work of Mikhail Ivanovich and Otmar Nussio. As if a fading memory is
snatching at fast-receding fragments, replaying stranded groups of notes, the
soundtrack phases aural clues under the boundary of perception.
The story is simplicity itself, a rendering of life's final hours in terms
that brook no alternate interpretation. In the cast of two, Geyer and Ananishnov
deliver solid, immobile performances both. With glances, murmurings and touches,
they create a tangible love, a devoted relationship reversed. Where once the
Mother cared for her new-born, now she is the helpless infant. Unfortunately
Sokurov directs with a languorous and unhurried pace, slow in exactly the way
that you treat sick people. Thus as Mother and Son serves us time to
ponder our personal fragility, it turns into a real struggle to remain alert.
Your mind can't help but lose focus, wandering and circling.
So while Sokurov's idiosyncratic picture is both poignant and worthy, it's
also tedious and draining. The journey that Mother and Son leads its
audience along is an internal, individual one; the crushing, quartering pain of
such loss is hardly an experience to be shared. As a result, the film impresses
and astounds without drawing an emotional response from within the viewer. Truly
the photography is incredible, and its sonic counterpart naturally beautiful,
but they're not enough. Of course, if you find that such minimalism and rigor
represents the very pinnacle of human achievement then Mother and Son is
likely to become one of your favourite films.
From www.film.u-net.com
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