Andrei Rublev (1966) One of the greatest historical epics ever made (Review)

Following on from Ivan’s Childhood, Curzon Artificial Eye continues their retrospective on Russian Grandmaster Andrei Tarkovsky with Andrei Rublev. The second feature from Russia’s most celebrated film export follows the titular fifteenth-century iconographer as he walks the lands – starting when he is young and idealistic and ending 3 hours later with the artist beaten by his sins and the sights of Medieval Russia. Broken up by title cards and consisting of seven short films or incidents from the titular character’s life between 1400 and 1424 – comprising of The Jester, Theophanes the Greek, The Passion According to Andrei, The Feast, The Last Judgement, The Raid, The Silence and the Bell.

This era of Russia is one where religion plays a pivotal role, the conception of Andrei wandering the lands is for born from a desire to grow closer to God, in turn making him a more complete artist – a comment Tarkovsky employed to get to the heart of his country’s historical identity. During the Jester segment, Kirill (a Monk in his company) states he has been walking the lands for a decade, with Andrei and his apprentice Daniil not too far behind. That patience flows into the DNA of the film, specifically in the discussion of cinematography. For Tarkovsky, the camera has become a point of parody, especially for detractors of 1979 film Stalker, in which the lens slowly scans an apocalyptic landscape as little occurs or is said. It’s that very same aesthetic that has kept certain film enthusiasts away and his significant filmography, locked behind the alienating door of slow cinema.

Truth, however, is much kinder, while the films run time is long and any notion of a plot is far off, the camera does more than anything to instil understanding or context. And on an even more base level, 3 hours may be hard to justify but there is never a lack of occurrences – there is always something happening to or around Andrei Rublev that captures attention. The scale of some of the set pieces alone beggars belief.

The camera is never afraid to mix with the same mud and filth as its characters, there are even passages when flicks of water and mud spatter the lens. A good case could be made for Tarkovsky’s film to be an early outing for the camera as a character. Even without the risk of breaking the camera by it being subject to all manners of dirt, the slowness allows viewers to drink in the details – whether it’s trees, hills or any other topographical entity’s, cinematographer Vadim Yusov is doing a fine job. The intent behind Andrei Rublev’s years-long pilgrimage is to see the world and its people and use that experience to become a better artist. The film and its visual presentation are echoing the intentions of the character, beautifully too.

Unfortunately, that same appreciation for detail got the production in trouble. The Goskino – USSR State Committee for Cinematography- demanded cuts, citing its length, negativity, violence, and nudity. After Tarkovsky complied, it would be five years before the film was widely released in his native Soviet Union. Cited negativity wasn’t hard to find with the then Russian public referred to as ignorant and a level of destitution wherein one woman is treated like an animal by the occupying military. In this 170 minute edit of the original theatrical versions 205, Andrei Rublev is infallible in its depictions of violence, suffering and the cruelty one can subject his fellow man to within a narrative schema both celebrating and vilifying the act of autodidacticism.

For the first hour, the dialogue is the principal drive, with theological discussions the centrepiece. Moving on from the heady discussions and onto a feast sequence that has since been consumed into a broader cinematic language, referenced in everything from Kill List to O’ Brother Where Art Thou – most everything with pagan overtones, in fact. This sequence is the first time we see a large number of people in the same place, with a smattering of naked bodies erupting from a forest engulfing Andrei Rublev and his companions. The controlled chaos in these scenes is mere foreplay compared to that which follows, nonetheless, having an unruly body of people emerge from nowhere and move without pattern or reason and for it to still be within the gaze of Tarkovsky’s camera is staggering.

The scale of that pagan throng is outdone in about every conceivable level when the Raid happens in the back half. A Sequence in which a Russian prince and the invading Tatars besiege a castle. This simply couldn’t be achieved without the aides of computer imagery today, and it has the added bonus of being interspersed with existentialist dreamscapes. And this is only Tarkovsky’s second film, it’s no wonder he is so influential to so many. The Raid is difficult to watch with the armed military almost playing with those poor unfortunate souls that call the castle grounds home. A relentless incident of concentrated aggression that sees a castle fall from dominance to absolute ruin. Most shockingly of all though is the one-two of the torture and stunt work, one unlucky man is scorched with fire while another is dragged across the ground by horses, while the animals themselves are used to the point of exhaustion. A simple shot of a horse falling down some stairs tells all of Tarkovsky’s approach to footage. To capture everything in-camera allows his world to function as a more coherent and believable reality, also aided by famed Russian restorer and art historian Savva Yamshchikov collaborating as a consultant. No stone is left unturned.

The silence that follows is aptly named, with desolation, hunger and the guilt of what Andrei both observed and did rendering him mute. One sequence sees a woman behave akin to a wild animal, sniffing around a group of apathetic Tartars for any scraps – no matter how small or rotten. The romance of the historical epic is nowhere to be seen, neither is sympathy – this is a pure, brutal truth. This assault changes everything for these poor people, evidenced by those that ascend to power. The prince seeks to build a bell in a sequence every bit as gigantic as the Raid, with hundreds of people gathering together as one within a mammoth construction site carved into the earth. The production design of the likes seen here reminds of Herzog’s Fitzcarraldo – with a momentous task depicted that also had to be reenacted.  An act within the film that expresses how the poverty-stricken stoke the ego of the aristocracy by building a statuesque bell in the middle of this mud sodden countryside in the middle of nowhere. The redundancy, the ceremony and a level of relevance that is just as potent in 1424 as it is now. Even before considering the cinematography bathing in the details, the level of coordination is unfathomable.

After all of this had left its mark on Andrei, from his beginnings as a prominent artist to someone who abandoned his artistic expression we finally see his art. The final 2 minutes are home to the only colour imagery, a fascinating manoeuvre in the expression of Rublev as a “world-historic figure” – only after we have seen what his experiences do we get to see how his experiences coloured him. The trials of Hercules, perhaps, reimagined as a lifelong artistic pilgrimage.  

Tarkovsky’s Andrei Rublev contains so much content and depth that it could take years to comprehend and decode its many layers, the legendary cinematography, massive expanse, and intellectual & historical depth. Honestly, it was hard not to be swept off my feet. There can be no greater recommendation than that. This towering film is of such impact, heft and boundless influence that it’s an absolute necessity for all movie fans to experience it – at least once. Simply put Andrei Rublev is one of the greatest historical epics ever made if not the greatest.

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