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Battleship Potemkin
By now, the editing style of Sergei Eisenstein’s Battleship Potemkin is the textbook example of montage, and deservedly so. Eisenstein more or less invented the use of quick cuts of several pieces of ongoing action, reaction shots, and close-ups, all spliced together to tell one complete story. The now famous scenes at the steps in which the Russian army shoots down innocent workers utilized such storytelling and editing devices, and they were both revolutionary in their time and influential to just about every subsequent cinematic endeavor. So effective are these moments, in fact, that most film historians/professors tend to skip the rest of the movie—about the true 1905 uprising on the Russian battleship Potemkin and the subsequent support the mutineers found on land—and focus on Eisenstein’s choice of rapid cuts and edits that he used in these several minutes of screen time. Perhaps it is impossible to discuss Potemkin without discussing the editing, but as I recently sat down to watch the film again, I found many more aspects and touches to be cherished that are often overlooked. Such touches will be the topic of this analysis. We first must consider the way that Battleship Potemkin looks. When viewing other great silent pictures such as Muranu’s Nosferatu or Lang’s Metropolis, we see discerning marks of pre-sound stage filmmaking. The makeup is glossed on heavily to separate the heroes from the villains, and characters are more expressive in their body movements to compensate for their voiceless performances. Yet Battleship Potemkin uses none of these staples of silent cinema—close-ups reveal lifelike wrinkles that come after years of hard labor and starvation, and the actors move about like real people seemingly unaware that they are being filmed. Shots of cooks stirring their filthy soup, or the Greek Orthodox priest raising his jewel-encrusted crucifix, or the crew’s attempts to sleep in the swaying hammocks all pack a realistic punch, and they play against the expressionistic, wildly stylized approach that most silent-era films maintained. For a film made in 1925, it is almost unnerving how modern this production looks, and this in turn makes its story and images all the more powerful. We also cannot discount the stirring emotion that Eisenstein creates with his images. The editing was such a cinematic landmark that we hardly recognize the power of the picture itself, but let’s be realistic: Could we have noticed the editing unless it was centered around startling, poignant images of human struggle, suffering, and, eventually, triumph? Is there a greater image in silent, realistic cinema than the seamen as they clutter together with a white sail draped over their bodies, which serves as one gigantic death-hood before their cruel captain executes them? For that matter, has a scene ever conveyed more drama, suspense, and heartbreak? Well, maybe one image tops it. It comes later on the steps, of course, and it is something of a miracle that it is as effective as it is. If you blink, you will miss the shot that I am talking about, as it is brilliantly edited together to create a furious, disoriented feeling of terrified citizens under attack from a ruthless government. On the steps, a soldier shoots a mother pushing a baby carriage, and as she falls to her death, the frightened infant moans from within the carriage and reaches out for her. The image creates such heartbreaking emotion that it is nearly unwatchable, and it reveals Eisenstein’s brilliance as a storyteller. This infant certainly could not have been acting, yet her reaction at her dying mother is so stunning and so honest that it would have been an injustice for Eisenstein not to include it. That the shot exists proves American director Robert Altman’s theory that filmmaking is as spontaneous as jazz—it can only be recorded, not practiced or prepared. Besides these haunting images, Battleship Potemkin is simply exciting, painting such a wide variety of emotions, events, and characters that the story unfolds without predictability. The last time I watched it, I didn’t realize until nearly half of the film was over that I had been viewing the Russian-language version, with English subtitles written only in a tiny font at the bottom of the speaking cards. I had been so caught up with what was happening on screen, I had forgotten to even read the subtitles, yet I understood perfectly what was happening, and I was honestly concerned about the people I was watching. Potemkin is a film that can hold you simply by its visual, storytelling power. To be fair, most silent films have this ability, but only a handful retains it in a way that is so emotionally and cinematically fulfilling. If there is any notoriety that exists about Battleship Potemkin, it is in the fact that the film is first and foremost a propaganda piece in favor of the Communist uprising. It clearly details the corrupt Russian government and the union of all the country’s workers against it, joined together in hope and freedom through the teachings of the Communist Manifesto. Because we know the eventual fate—and consequences—of Communism in Russia, Eisenstein’s film is perhaps even more poignant and heartbreaking. It becomes a time capsule of an era when people wanted change, and how they found it in a common hope that united them. As we watch the baby carriage tumble down the steps, we know that this will probably not be the last time that such a tragedy will take place there, but one certainty remains: It has never been captured with as much power as it is here. Cast: A Goskino production. Directed by Sergei M. Eisenstein. Written by Nina Agadzhanova and Eisenstein. No M.P.A.A. rating, but fine for mature children (ten and up). Running time: 75 minutes. Original Russian theatrical release date: April 28, 1925. Silent, with both Russian and English subtitles. Questions? Comments? E-mail me: danel_the_tinman@hotmail.com |
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