WAR AND PEACE: Blu-ray (Mosfilms, 1961-67) Criterion Collection
Truly, a motion
picture of rare and discriminating visual majesty – conceived over seven years
in a sort of moody magnificence, skating on the edge of soap opera, and,
employing a cast of literally thousands, there has never been – or likely, will
ever be - another movie quite like Sergei Bondarchuk’s War and Peace (1961-67). If author, Leo Tolstoy’s titanic novel typified
the unique literary form that is the
Russian novel, absorbingly particularized, ardent and amorous, then Bondarchuk’s
filmic adaptation remains, by far, the most trenchantly – occasionally, slavishly
– devout celluloid transmutation of Tolstoy’s magniloquence. Perhaps, due to
the novel’s sheer latitude, few movies – even mini-series – had been attempted
over the years. But at the height of the Cold War, the Soviet film industry,
determined to one-up Hollywood, placed a seemingly unlimited amount of
resources in the hands of a 45-year-old actor who had never directed an epic
before. Bondachuk’s reputation as a thespian of considerable repute preceded him
- at 32, the youngest actor ever to receive the prestigious People's Artist
award of the USSR. His likely failure to achieve pure profits with this
elephantine spectacle – despite the staggering publicity, high praise and many
internationally accolades lavished upon the movie, would dog the rest of his
career. But in 1956, Bondarchuk was riding the crest of fame, starring with
future wife, Irina Skobtseva in a legendary adaptation of Shakespeare’s Othello, and, in 1959, making his
directorial debut with Destiny of a Man,
based on Mikhail Sholokhov’s short story. Even by such ego-driven high
standards, War and Peace would be an
intimidating and massive undertaking. Superficially, Tolstoy’s tome, follows the
ill-fated destiny of three lost souls, swept up in the tumult and tragedy of
the Napoleonic War; the ineffectually ham-fisted, though empathetic, Pierre
Bezukhov (played by Bondarchuk, as though he did not have enough to do behind
the camera, directing this behemoth); the courageously flawed, Prince Andrei
Bolkonsky (a masterful command from Vyacheslav Tikhonov), and, the luminescent,
if stormy, Natasha Rostova (a positively incandescent, Lyudmila Savelyeva).
If nothing else –
and, there is plenty more to recommend it – Bondarchuk’s War and Peace represents a zenith in extravagant picture-making,
and, not only for the USSR; the archetype for a certain je ne sais quoi
in regal splendor, inventively staged for maximum pictorial effect, with high-polished
cinematography by Anatoly Petritsky. War
and Peace so completely recreates the grandeur of that departed,
pre-revolutionary Russia, its ornamental mesmerism, unreservedly ravishing, though
fragile too, torn to pieces by awe-inspiring scenes of combat and carnage that devastate
the senses with their expressionistic sovereignty. Just to shoot the Battle of
Borodino and 1812 Moscow fire, Bondarchuk amassed a regular army, augmented by
specially created cavalry regiments, employing 15,000 soldiers. And, as the
whole of Soviet national pride was at stake and invested in this copiously appointed
production (the loan out of actual relics, culled from the national archives to
be used as ‘props’) it should come as virtually no surprise Bondarchuk’s movie is
likely to remain the singular feat in
picture-making, never again to be duplicated. And Bondarchuk’s prowess as both
a film-maker and actor is working overtime here; employing all manner of
military planes and helicopters for aerial master shots that absolutely boggle
the mind. As all of these ‘perks’ were provided for by the Soviet government,
no cost was incurred by the film’s producers. Technically, and on the books, War and Peace cost Mosfilm’s nothing,
though some estimates put the government’s expenditures at $700 million in
today’s dollars, making it the most commercially impracticable movie ever made.
And yet, as
interesting to consider how close the movie came to never being made. Indeed,
if not for King Vidor’s clumsily conceived 1956 American-Italian co-produced adaptation,
seen in the USSR as part of their ‘cultural
exchange’ program, Bondarchuk might never have found his way to this War and Peace. Viewed today, Vidor’s
movie is a snore, despite a luminous Audrey Hepburn as his Natasha. And, it
must be pointed out that whatever its artistic flaws, this Paramount-produced version,
in VistaVision, was highly profitable around the world, which only irked Soviet
officials more. As Tolstoy had the very great ‘good fortune’ of being dead long
enough to be considered a national treasure – even by the Communists – the Soviet
government simply would not stand for the greatest of Tolstoy’s annexed
literary masterworks to be bastardized by an American film company…and for
profit. So, the Minister of Culture, Yekaterina Furtseva, contacted Mosfilms – the nation’s
oldest and most revered studio – to produce a grander spectacle. In every way, War and Peace had to be a prestige
picture, helmed by this mercurial Merlin who had already won the nation’s
greatest acting honor at the tender age of 32!
For all its range
and opulence, Bondarchuk’s movie would correspondingly yield to a vibrant
tapestry of domestic drama – a family saga, reflecting the blissful arrogance of
ancient Russia’s defunct aristocracy and its lamentable fall. We really do
spend a significant amount of time with these characters who populated Tolstoy’s
masterpiece, and the characterizations that emerge on screen are as richly rewarding
as the devastating gigantism of its battle cries and ballgown-ed gavottes that
intermittently provide for that devastatingly handsome and supremely satisfying
spectacle. It is in this juxtaposition between
such polar opposites that Bondarchuk’s novelty for good solid story-telling
emerges triumphant and, in fact, prefigures many of the visual cues later copied
and even celebrated by contemporary American film makers. The effect of Bondarchuk’s
visual styling is uncannily slanted towards probing the more deeply invested
psychological quagmire and suffrage of its main players. It is one of those
grave ironies that War and Peace,
hailed as a masterwork around the world, inexplicably fell out of favor in the
Soviet Union, precisely because of its world-wide acclaim and Oscar win for
Best Foreign Film. At home, the Communist Party’s natural aversion to outside
influences – considering even the faint whiff of ‘popularity’ an anathema to
their Marxist principles, and fueled by ‘sour-grape’ criticism from Bondarchuk’s
begrudging peers, resulted in an abrupt drop off in profits at the box office.
Overnight, War and Peace literally vanished, and
thereafter would remain locked in the vaults, unseen for literally decades. Even
so, the power in its imagery remained inculcated in the hearts and minds of
those fortunate enough to have seen it in its original theatrical run; the
movie, garnering a fabulous following from devout cinephiles, yearning to see
it again. And attitudes, slow to change under the old regime, nevertheless, were
steadily eroded with their passing, and the passage of time itself. So, War and Peace – begun ambitiously, hued
in agony, triumphant theatrically, dismissed politically – was, at long last, about
to be hailed as the singularly most important movie of the Soviet era; too late
for Sergei Bondarchuk, who died in 1994, at the age of 74, with remembrances of
those heady production days as yet underappreciated in his own time. Thus, by early 2000, Mosfilms began a
concerted effort to restore Bondarchuk’s movie to its former greatness. By
then, no original negative existed; the arduous process to authenticate War and Peace’s visual splendor,
resulting in a very complex and scrupulous search for the best surviving
elements. The picture was literally cobbled back together, in some cases
frame-by-frame, with negatives culled from an exhaustive odyssey into many film
archives.
Placed within
its proper context, War and Peace
(or ‘Voyna i Mir’, as it is known in
its native land) was the most expensive European film ever made – the record-holder
for many years to follow, with a nearly incomprehensive gestation period of 7
years – noted on the faces of some of the actors, who obviously aged within
that time frame. Unencumbered by Hollywood’s reigning code of censorship, Bondarchuk
vacillated in his unflinchingly graphic depiction of war’s bloodshed. Indeed,
one battle sequence, taking up nearly 45 minutes, sacrificed so many horses,
the picture was boycotted by the ASPCA. Indeed,
Criterion’s plans to release War and
Peace on home video in the U.K. have stalled due to an outcry against
animal cruelty. Originally seen at 507 minutes, War and Peace would be pared down to 373 minutes for its American release
where, astonishingly, it became a sleeper hit, and later, a triumph in the
Nielsen’s when ABC elected to broadcast it over four nights in 1972. Comparing King
Vidor’s 1959 American-Italian co-production to Bondarchuk’s movie is as enfeebled
as drawing a parallel between grapefruits and giraffes. On every level, Vidor’s
endeavor comes off like a summer stock knock-off. Despite being first out the
gate, it holds no sway in any discussion of Bondarchuk’s masterwork and should
be considered only as the impetus that drove the USSR into a very costly
counterstrike to meet, and even exceed, the challenge of hand-crafting the
definitive version of Tolstoy’s epic novel, as Furtseva’s open letter in the Soviet press,
insisted, as a matter of national pride “…to
produce a picture which will surpass the American-Italian one in its artistic
merit and authenticity.”
Precisely how
Bondarchuk came to direct War and Peace
is as fascinating a tale as that which he eventually unfurled up on the screen.
As early as 1960, rumors of a Soviet-made War
and Peace began to garner interest from the USSR’s leading directors, Mikhail
Romm, Sergei Gerasimov and Ivan Pyryev among them. While each had their
reasons, and merits to qualify them as viable candidates for the plum part,
only Pyryev was ever seriously considered. And only after some backstage/backstabbing
intervention, did Sergei Bondarchuk’s name come to the surface of this
discussion. It should be noted that Bondarchuk knew nothing of the politicized
maelstrom and envy within the establishment working against Pyryev in 1960. Nor
did Bondarchuk set out to promote himself as the government’s candidate of
choice – even for consideration. In fact, Bondarchuk’s first contact with War and Peace arrived by way of a
letter from the Ministry of Culture, informing him of his appointment to the director’s
chair. Initially, Furtseva proposed Pyryev and Bondarchuk should direct ‘a pilot’
to be screen for the commission in their decision-making process. As Pyryev
realized this was a purely conciliatory move, meant to spare him the
embarrassment of an outright rejection, though nevertheless ease him from the
project, he politely declined Furtseva’s offer, allowing Bondarchuk, whose career
represented a new generation of young directors promoted by Nikita Khrushchev's
Kremlin, to replace yet another stalwart from Stalin time.
On April 3,
1961, Vladimir Surin, the director-general of Mosfilm, requested approval for a
3-part adaptation of War and Peace,
to be funded at a cost of 150,000 Soviet rubles. One month later, Furtseva
agreed to 30,000 rubles instead, and work on War and Peace officially began. Bondarchuk hired Vasily Solovyov to
write the screenplay, a playwright whom he greatly admired. However, as the writing process began,
Solovyov quickly realized there was simply too much material in Tolstoy’s novel
to effectively condense into a 3-part miniseries, and thus, with Bondarchuk’s
complicity, the scenario was expanded to include one extra part – 4 instead of
3. Solovyov also streamlined several of
Tolstoy’s subsidiary storylines, or, cut them out altogether; the author’s
philosophical views on history, completely discarded. It took nearly a year to
rework the screenplay and gain the committee’s approval. But thereafter, War and Peace was green-lit for
production, with Furtseva instructing all relevant agencies, including the
Ministry of Defense, to lend their backing to the project. Three military
advisers were brought in to assure authenticity for the battle sequences: Army
Generals Vladimir Kurasov and Markian Popov, and, Lieutenant General Nikolai
Oslikovsky - an expert on cavalry. More than 40 museums opened their treasure
troves of rare artifacts, including chandeliers, furnishings and tableware, to ensure
the picture’s recreation of 19th-century Russia was authentic down to the last
detail. Under Vladimir Burmeister’s expert tutelage, costume designers, Nadezhda
Buzina, Mikhail Chikovani, and, V. Vavra oversaw a small army of seamstresses
in the sewing of thousands of costumes.
For the staging
of the Napoleonic War, 60 cannons were cast, and, 120 wagons and carts expressly
built. The need for cavalry, long ago retired, resulted in the borrowing of several
units from the Transcaucasian Military District and Turkestan Military District
with the Ministry of Agriculture donating 900 horses, and, the Moscow City
Police organizing a detachment from its mounted regiment. The producers also
borrowed scent hounds from the Ministry of Defense to stage the ‘wolf hunt’ at
the Rostov estate; the wolves, supplied by the zoological department of the
State Studio for Popular Science Films. Bondarchuk’s casting call for human
participants began in May, 1961 with popular actor, Oleg Strizhenov almost immediately
hired to play Prince Andrei Bolkonsky. But then, a year elapsed and Strizhenov
changed his mind. Bondarchuk bristled, but Furtseva was unable to coax Strinzhenov
back into the fold. So, Bondarchuk then turned to gifted stage actor, Innokenty
Smoktunovsky, whose commitments on the national theater’s production of Hamlet precluded his participation. As something of a last resort, Vyacheslav
Tikhonov inherited the role – a concession with which Bondarchuk was never entirely
satisfied – partly, because Tikhonov’s participation came at a highest pay
scale. For the part of Pierre Bezukhov, Bondarchuk had originally pictured a
man of great physical strength, as described in the novel. Turning to Olympic weightlifter, Yury Vlasov, Bondarchuk
quickly discovered, to both men’s chagrin, the art of teaching Vlasov to act
was a lost cause. With time running out, Bondarchuk cast himself in the role
instead; his wife, actress, Irina Skobtseva, hired to play Hélène Kuragin,
Pierre’s shrewish first wife.
Alas, as the shoot
interminably dragged on…and on, Bondarchuk hired journalist, Yury Devochkin,
who bore an uncanny physical resemblance, as his stand-in. Keen eyes will be
able to spot the switch in many of the scenes in the latter acts; Devochkin,
shot either from the extreme side or back – a very credible facsimile, while
Bondarchuk busied himself behind the camera in the director’s chair. For the pivotal role of Natasha Rostov,
Bondarchuk made an even more unorthodox decision, sidestepping such high-profile
talents as Anastasiya Vertinskaya and Lyudmila Gurchenko in favor of a
19-year-old ballerina who had never acted before. Miraculously, Ludmila
Savelyeva’s inexperience as an actress works in service to the part of the
luminous ingenue, attired and similarly quaffed to resemble Audrey Hepburn’s
Natasha from the ’56 movie. Gifted child actor, Nikita Mikhalkov was hired to
play Natasha's brother, Petya Rostov. Puberty intervened, however, and the part
was recast with the younger, and, prepubescent, Sergei Yermilov. If Bondarchuk
consternated over his roster of players, he had more headaches to endure with
Mosfilm’s decision to shoot War and
Peace in 70mm, to take advantage of its scope and remarkable field of depth
and clarity. Overlooking Kodak publicly, ‘as
a matter of national pride’, though more likely as a more economically
priced derivative, produced locally at the Shostka Chemical Plant, Bondarchuk
and his Director of Photography, Anatoli Petritsky soon discovered why their acquisition
cost a fraction of its more well-known competitor. Shostka’s 70mm film stock
was horrendously flawed, forcing Bondarchuk to re-shoot many sequences more
than once – or even twice – because the film either fell apart in the camera or
failed to develop properly at the lab. As a result, War and Peace’s production costs edged upward by at least 15%.
And Bondarchuk,
a stickler for detail, had other conflicts to manage along the way, including a
heated split with husband and wife cinematographers, Alexander Shelenkov and
Yu-Lan Chen, who, at one point, tried to get Bondarchuk thrown off the picture.
Instead, their 31-yr.-old assistant, Petritsky, who had only shot one film to
date, replaced them both. To say that Petritsky and Bondarchuk were pioneering their
way into the annals of history is a bit much, although many of their techniques
had never been seen in Soviet cinema before: aerial lifts to create ‘a cannon
ball view’ during the battle sequences, and the use of a very clunky precursor
to the hand-held camera, with the operator affixed to roller skates and whirled
around the dance floor by another operator to capture the intricate dance
maneuvers during Natasha's first ball. Crowd
scenes also employed extensive use of cranes and helicopters. Finally, War and Peace would benefit from a then
state-of-the-art 6-channel recording system. From September through December,
1962, Bondarchuk shot aggressively, enduring long work-days, capturing crucial
scenes inside the Novodevichy Convent, the Kremlin and the village of
Bogoslavskoye, in the Yasnogorsky District. Then, on Dec. 1, the director
girded his loins to begin staging the epic battles of Schöngrabern and Austerlitz,
lugging 150 wagons of heavy equipment to Mukachevo in the Zakarpattia Oblast.
Inclement
weather proved both a blessing and a curse here; Bondarchuk revising his plans
and shooting 231 scenes; taking advantage of the inhospitable snowy conditions
to shoot The Battle of Krasnoi with 2,500 Soviet soldiers wearing French
uniforms and 500 more, clad in Russian attire. In tandem, 3,000 Carpathian soldiers
staged the Battle of Schöngrabern near the village of Kushtanovytsia, while The
Battle of Austerlitz shot in the vicinity, near Svaliava. By July, Bondarchuk had recovered sufficiently
from the incalculable stresses of staging such massive crowd scenes, relocating
cast and crew to Dorogobuzh for the Battle of Borodino. Borodino itself could not be used as, in the
intervening century it contained too many memorials that could not be
camouflaged. 13,500 soldiers and 1,500
horsemen, strategically placed across the expansive plains, suggested a vaster
military presence. What was originally planned for 13-days, stretched into a
3-month forced march, using up nearly 23 tons of gunpowder and 40,000 liters of
kerosene for the staged pyrotechnics. The set was so all-encompassing it had to
be divided to sectors, with an elaborate system of loudspeakers erected to
broadcast Bondarchuk’s commands to the extras. By November, the dust had
settled on this last of these epic battles, and production came home to Mosfilm’s
studios where Natasha’s debutante ball was photographed, employing a cast of
500 extras. In the Spring, production moved into the devastatingly beautiful
halls and ballrooms of the Hermitage Museum; then, the Summer Garden, the Peter
and Paul Fortress, and finally, Vasilyevsky Island.
At this juncture,
Bondarchuk’s workflow was interrupted by a series of unfortunate circumstances:
first, instructions from on high, ordering him to halt production and focus his
efforts on assembling the first 2-parts of his opus magnum in time for the 1965
Moscow Film Festival. The strain sincerely proved too great and Bondarchuk
suffered a major cardiac arrest as a result. Indeed, he was even declared clinically
dead, before awakening to everyone’s amazement, and uttering “If I die, let Gerasimov finish it.” Despite
these setbacks, the ‘Andrei Bolkonsky’ and ‘Natasha Rostova’ chapters in the
story were completed on time and submitted to Mosfilm's directorate for their
stamp of approval less than a week before the festival in July. Alas,
Bondarchuk was to suffer another heart attack: this time, flat-lining for nearly
four full minutes. The white wall of light witnessed by Bolkonsky before his
death was, in fact, inspired by Bondarchuk’s out-of-body experience. Barely out
of hospital, work commenced on the remaining 2-episodes in August, shooting in Mozhaysk,
Kalinin and Zvenigorod. By October, production had moved to the village of
Teryayevo, next to the Joseph-Volokolamsk Monastery where an impressive plywood
recreation of the city of Moscow had been erected to be burned to the ground
for the climactic invasion sequence; the set, doused in diesel fuel and lit ablaze
as cameras rolled. By December, Bondarchuk and his editor had managed to shape
this material into Episode 3, and work on the final chapter of War and Peace commenced, shooting
without break from January through August of 1967.
When the dust
had settled, the Soviet Ministry of Culture estimated that War and Peace had unofficially cost them some 4 million rubles, not
counting support received from the Army. By some accounts, the final tally on
the picture had shaken Mosfilm to its core at a staggering 18-million rubles. In
comparison, the most expensive Soviet film until then – 1952’s The Unforgettable Year 1919 had tipped
the scales at an impressive 1.093 million. Furtseva reasoned that War and Peace, apart from being a lavishly-appointed
gamble, would likely remain the costliest movie ever made in the USSR – a prophetic
statement, indeed. As no official budget
was ever listed on the books, War and
Peace is estimated – with inflation factored in – to have cost somewhere
between $70-80 million dollars, equivalent today to well over $700 million! Distribution of the picture, both domestic and
overseas, presented its own quandary, as a staggering 20 reels needed to be
shipped at a sizable cost. Nevertheless, domestic returns were estimated in the
range of 58 million rubles, making War
and Peace a respectable money-maker in its day. Internationally, the
picture was as well-received in 117 countries, although, depending on which
country it played, the run time ranged anywhere from 409 to 337 minutes. The
picture was further pared down for its U.S. premiere, and dubbed into English; ‘directed’ by Lee Kresel and narrated by
Norman Rose.
Accolades followed:
the Grand Prix at Moscow’s 4th International Film Festival, and
honors to Savelyeva and Vyacheslav Tikhonov for the Best Actress and Actor of
1966; Japan’s prestigious Million Pearl Award; in America - the Golden Globe,
and National Board of Review honors for Best Foreign Language Film and finally,
the Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film – a first, for the nation. Given
its stature and size, War and Peace had
morphed into Russia’s Gone with the Wind;
a distinction duly noted by Soviet film critic, Rostislav Yurenev who wrote,
rather glowingly, that Bondarchuk’s far-reaching vision had yielded, by far, “the most ambitious and monumental
adaptation of the greatest work of Russian literature. Bondarchuk set out to
convey in tremendous scope of Leo Tolstoy, his extraordinarily vivid and
profound depiction of humanity…with ever greater depth of penetration into the
human character. The outcome,” Yurenev reasoned, “…is truly marvelous.” And his was not the only note of gushing
praise. Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung reviewer, Brigitte Jeremias hailed the
picture’s “great meticulousness and
choreographic quality”, while French critic, Claude Mauriac wrote in Le
Figaro littéraire, “…this is the most
beautiful movie I have seen since, well… since when?” In America, noted critics,
Judith Crist and Roger Ebert added their triumphant calls to this passing
parade; Crist, writing in New York Magazine, “I'm putting Gone with the Wind
into historic perspective and second place. For certainly, War and Peace is not only the finest epic of our time, but also a
great and noble translation of a literary masterpiece, surpassing our
expectation and imagination.” Ebert would offer the last word domestically
on the picture’s importance, concluding War
and Peace as “a magnificently unique
film…able to balance the spectacular, the human, and the intellectual. It is as
spectacular as a movie can possibly be and yet it has a human fullness.”
War and Peace is divided into four parts: the first, devoted to Andrei
Bolkonsky. We experience St. Petersburg, circa, 1805. Pierre Bezukhov, the
illegitimate son of a wealthy nobleman, is presented to the aristocracy by his
friend, Prince Andrei Bolkonsky, who joins the Imperial Russian Army as
aide-de-camp to General Mikhail Kutuzov (Boris Zakhava) in
the War of the Third Coalition against Napoleon (Vladislav
Strzhelchik). With the recognition of his estranged father, Pierre attracts
Hélène Kuragin – a social-climber merely interested in his money, whom he
marries, then discovers, is having an affair behind his back with Fedor Dolokov
(Oleg Yefremov), an intimate of her brother, Anatol (Vasily Lanovoy). Momentarily
departing from Pierre’s unhappy domestic situation, we witness Andrei partake
in the failed battles of Schöngrabern and Austerlitz. Badly wounded, Andrei is mistaken for dead. He
returns to his father's estate a shell of his former self; his wife, Lisa
(Anastasiya Vertinskaya), dying in childbirth. Part II
picks up the story of Natasha Rostova at the end of 1809. Attending her first
court ball, the lithesome, if glacially cool – at first – Natasha enraptures
Andrei’s heart. His intentions to marry her are thwarted by his father, and, in
reply, Andrei travels abroad, leaving the as smitten Natasha to pine for him
from afar. Natasha is then introduced to Anatol and, in Andrei’s absence, comes
to prefer him over Andrei. At the last minute, she suffers guilt and regrets,
abandoning their plans of elopement. Alas, as bad news travels fast, Andrei’s
ego is sorely bruised and he ends their betrothal. Pierre, who has always
admired Natasha from afar now declares his love for her.
In Part III: War and Peace enters the first of its grand
set pieces with Napoleon’s invasion of Russia. General Kutuzov implores Andrei
to join him as a staff officer. Still suffering the slings and arrows of his
failed romance with Natasha, the embittered Andrei requests a command in the
field instead. Pierre endeavors to view the upcoming confrontation between these
gallant armies from a safe distance. However, during the Battle of Borodino, overcome
with his own sense of patriotism, Pierre impetuously joins the volunteers to
assist in an artillery battery. While awaiting in the reserve, both Andrei and
Anatol are hit by a mortar and severely wounded. Victorious, Napoleon advances
on Moscow with devastating results. In Part IV, the city is torched by the
retreating proletariat. The Rostovs are forced to flee their estate, taking
several of the wounded in their carriage, including Andrei. Masquerading as a
peasant, Pierre falters in his attempt on Napoleon’s life and is taken prisoner.
As the French are driven from Moscow, Pierre is forced to march with their
captives, enduring months of torture until a Russian raiding party liberates
the prisoners. Defeated by General Kutuzov in the Battle of Krasnoi, Napoleon
withdraws his troops entirely. The Rostovs realize Andrei is among the dying.
Before he expires, he sincerely forgives Natasha. Tearfully reunited with the freed
Pierre, a more mature Natasha, having set aside her childhood fancies on love
and romance, agrees to marry him as Moscow prepares to rebuilt after the war.
War and Peace is so completely one of the finest examples of film-making
ever, and quite possibly, the greatest epic of all time, that to have suffered
its absence these many years is a tragedy more absorbingly genuine than perhaps
even the melodrama depicted within its fictionalized narrative contents.
Bondarchuk has melded the traditions of this long-departed era in Russia’s
evolution, taking the precepts of Tolstoy’s incalculably complex novel, and,
incorporating a modernist perspective with state-of-the-art film-making techniques
that were, if not profoundly original, then, under his inspired vision,
assembled in a creative context, light-years ahead of his competition. Performing
a tenuous balancing act, Bondarchuk conveys the author’s own political
viewpoint, seemingly by inflection alone, expunging its more deliberate outline,
enough to remain inoffensive to the then prevailing political strain of hard-liner
communism. War and Peace is neither the converse nor a conformist view for
what then passed as state-sanctioned cinema. Its patriotic motifs are lustily
exposed, framed within the ancient traditions that, despite communism itself, are
an irrefutable part of the nation’s tapestry. Adhering to history, and an uncompromising
fidelity to Tolstoy (risen through the literary ranks in stature akin to the
Bible), on celluloid, War and Peace transcends
the ‘official standards’ in good taste. To be sure, there are sociopolitical traces
scattered throughout its lengthy run time, illustrating an uber-proletarian-esque
esprit de corps. But these brief respites celebrate the hegemony of Russia’s military;
also, the defiant endurance of its collective soul. So, in the end, War and Peace emerges as a victory lap
for a fallen empire, olden ways of living (not happily ever after, but finely,
and with a strength of character and conviction, revealed in the assailed
adversities), and finally, a hearty nod to one film-maker’s blind-sighted
devotion to achieve greatness on celluloid; Bondarchuk’s reputation, ever-after,
farther reaching and inspirational than the state commanding him to create it.
Restoring War and Peace to its former glory has
been something of a Herculean ordeal. As early as 1986, Bondarchuk was brought
back to prepare his opus magnum for its television broadcast, creating a 35mm preservation
master, ruthlessly cropped to the then TV-friendly 4:3 aspect ratio. As War and Peace had originally been designed
to take full advantage of the 2.20:1 70mm format, this meant a staggering
amount of its carefully composed imagery was brutally absent. It would take another decade for Mosfilm to
invest in a complete restoration of the original format. Alas, by then the 70mm
elements were no longer salvageable. So,
the studio merely released the 4:3 version to DVD, incurring an expenditure of
roughly $80,000. Again, nearly a decade
passed. This time, Mosfilm’s new director, Karen Shakhnazarov, announced that a
‘frame by frame’ restoration of War and
Peace in 70mm was underway. Well...not exactly. What Mosfilms did do was to salvage what they could from various 35mm preservation masters and reassemble the image with care and digital massaging applied, to provide a restoration that, if not quite as glorious as its 70mm predecessor, then certainly, light years ahead of anything seen in the intervening decades when War and Peace was thought to be lost to us for all time. So, arduous was this process that, begun in
2006, it was not to be completed until 2016. Later that same year, the results
of these labors premiered theatrically for New York’s Film Society at the
Lincoln Center, and then, in Los Angeles, and then, in a few other major
cities. And now – or rather, very soon – comes Criterion’s Blu-ray – breathtaking,
beyond all expectation. Finagling through a lot of ‘red’ tape to secure
international distribution rights through Janus Films, Criterion’s 2-disc
Blu-ray is a revelation by any barometer in hi-def mastering.
Remastered in 2K,
this is the complete 422-minute version audiences in the USSR originally saw,
properly framed in 2.35:1. Settling into a painterly color palette, the image
throughout favors a blue slant – as was originally conceived by Bondarchuk. The
range of colors is extraordinary; blood reds, velvety grays, earthy browns, and
very naturalistic flesh tones. Occasionally, the image can appear slightly
pasty. But truly, there is nothing to complain about here. Contrast is solid.
Even dimly lit scenes reveal a startling amount of fine detail, and exquisite
shadow delineation without black crush, and, film grain looks very authentic to
its source. Prepare to be dazzled, because
War and Peace – apart from its
original theatrical engagement – has NEVER looked this good on home video. Criterion
has remastered a 5.1 DTS soundtrack from original 6-track magnetic elements. Vyacheslav
Ovchinnikov’s mesmerizing score thunders across the screen, and sound effects during
battle sequences exhibit a visceral quality quite out of the ordinary for a
movie of this vintage; especially one that, for decades, has suffered gravely
from improper preservation.
Criterion pads
out the extras. There are two vintage documentaries covering the making of the
film, ‘Woina I Mir’ – shot by a
German film company in 1966 in B&W, is housed on the first disc, while the
other is on Disc 2 – in color and with rare interview footage featuring an introspective
Bondarchuk. Cinematographer, Anatoly Pertitsky, still very much with us, has
recorded a new 2019 interview, revealing the immensity of this undertaking. This
man has fantastic recall. Also new – an interview
with Fedor Bondarchuk, the son of the filmmaker paying homage to his late
father and also discussing the far-reaching influence of his legacy. Expressly
produced for this Criterion Blu-ray is ‘Cold
War Classic’ a fascinating 45-min. discussion piece with scholar, Denise J.
Youngblood. From 1968, comes the French television program, ‘Les Sovietiques’ with interviews from
Ludmila Savelyeva and Bondarchuk. Finally, there is 1969’s ‘Making War and Peace’ produced in tandem
with the movie as a PR puff piece by Mosfilm, as well as the trailer produced
for Janus Films’ theatrical re-release. Bottom
line: War and Peace is exquisite – a
master class in hand-crafted/mind-boggling spectacle with substance. There will
never be another movie quite like it and that remains part, if not all, of its
charm. Bondarchuk’s mastery of the cinema language is awe-inspiring and has
held up spectacularly over the intervening decades. This new restoration should
be paramount on everyone’s ‘must have’ list. It is by far, the most important
Blu-ray release of this year and, quite possibly, the decade. Very, very highly recommended!
FILM RATING (out of 5 – 5 being the best)
5+
VIDEO/AUDIO
5+
EXTRAS
5+
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