Eisenstein's Mexican Dream (Pt. 1)
Chris Dashiell
-- Sergei M. Eisenstein
The film opens with a shot of a massive pyramid, one of the great
Mayan ruins at Chichen Itza on the Yucatan. We hear a slow, un-
earthly electronic music. Cut to other shots of the pyramid and
temples, of strangely beautiful stone faces, the faces of ancient
gods. The narrator speaks. He is speaking in Russian.
"The time of the prologue is eternity. It might be today. Or
twenty years ago. Or it might as well be a thousand."
We look upward, always upward, at the structures towering
above us. Quick shots of the ruined monuments, different angles
and aspects like pieces of a puzzle. Then we see people sitting next
to the statuary, their faces as solemn and distant as the gods. A
lone figure, seen from the side, climbs the steps of the pyramid
which continue up and off the screen into infinity. Again there are
shots of various people, standing and sitting in the midst of the
awesome stone figures. The faces, dark Indian faces, closely resemble
the statues. A man stands stiff and upright, a serape pulled around
him, at the temple of Quetzalcoatl. His eyes are closed, his expres-
sion serene as if in a sacred trance. To his right is a giant figure
of carved rock, in which one can trace an inhuman visage - the eyes
and mouth of the plumed god. And then, most startling - a long shot
of a pyramid with a close-up of a woman's face in profile bending
over it, each element in complete focus, with an effect of weird,
dreamlike beauty.
Finally we see an old Mayan funeral ceremony. A coffin is on the
ground, with three small bowls placed on top of it. Through the open
upper end we can see the face of the dead man. Sitting on the ground
around the deceased are six people, three men on one side, three
women on the other. The men are staring fixedly towards the foot
of the coffin, the women towards the head. Their faces are as im-
passive as that of the dead man. In another shot we see the three
men, with their faces still set in an otherworldly gaze, carrying the
coffin away feet first. In an eternal stillness, death and life are
as one.
The film, like the pyramid at Chichen Itza, is a ruin. It is
Sergei Eisenstein's QUE VIVA MEXICO!, a picture that was
never completed, never edited by its creator, never molded into
the form he had intended. The closest we can come to this ruin is
through the version we are watching now - a reconstruction by
assistant director Grigori Alexandrov, released in 1979, almost
fifty years after the shoot. Alexandrov was a talented artist, but
he was not a genius like Eisenstein. Well never know how the film
would have looked and sounded like with its director in control.
For example, the music - Eisenstein's notes for this prologue call
for Mayan drums and a high-toned chant. The synthesizer music in
the reconstruction has an eerie quality, but it's hardly Indian or
Mexican in its feeling. Another example - some of the notes indi-
cate a segue from the funeral sequence into the next section of the
picture - with a young woman floating down the river to a tryst with
her lover, symbol of vibrant rebirth after the grave.
Watching QUE VIVA MEXICO! is like walking through a temple
that has been rebuilt from its pieces. We recognize the beauty of the
fragments while knowing that the temple, the vision of its creator,
was far greater than we can see.
Behind these fragments is a story. The story of one of the most
famous failed enterprises in the history of movies.
*
Why would Eisenstein, a Russian director famous for films with
Soviet political themes, want to make a film about Mexico?
You might think it was because Mexico also went through a
revolution, just a few years before Russia. But in fact his interest
was personal. At twenty-two years old he had designed and helped
direct a stage adaptation of a Jack London story, _The Mexican_.
It was at this time that he first studied the rituals, costumes and
masks of Mexico, and there was something in these images that touched
memories of childhood and visits to the circus. Two years after this
production he was captivated by THE MARK OF ZORRO, directed
by Fred Niblo and starring Douglas Fairbanks. In the early 1920s,
Soviet filmmakers were closely studying American films in order to
advance their own technique. THE MARK OF ZORRO was an
example of Hollywood innovation and exuberance, but it also had a
Mexican flavor, however fanciful. Eisenstein got to meet Fairbanks
and Mary Pickford on their 1926 visit to Moscow. Fairbanks promised
to arrange for him to make a film with United Artists, and the star
couple returned home with a print of Eisenstein's new film, THE
BATTLESHIP POTEMKIN, to be introduced to an astonished
America.
In the same year the great Mexican painter Diego Rivera also
visited the Soviet Union. He and Eisenstein became friends, and
Rivera spoke often about Mexican history, architecture and art. He
believed that it was important for a country to preserve and draw
from its cultural past, remarking at one point that it was a mistake
for the Soviets to condemn their tradition of icon painting. This
kind of thing went against the grain, and by the time Rivera left a
year later, he was out of favor and sharply critical of Soviet
ideology. His influence on Eisenstein was profound. The young
filmmaker's interest in Mexican culture now became an obsession,
and for the first time the idea came to him of doing a film about
Mexico.
Mexico seems to have represented something vital and exciting to
Eisenstein. Perhaps it symbolized a freedom that he had not felt
since childhood. The call of Mexico might have been in part the call
of parts of himself - imaginative, sensual, spiritual - that he had
denied and that was denied validity in the new revolutionary
culture. He was apparently not aware of any of these implications,
but he continued to dream.
Because of POTEMKIN, Sergei Eisenstein had become the
leading figure in a group of young artists who were breaking new
ground in cinematic technique. They were part of a larger avant-
garde movement which fervently believed in the promise of
Soviet art. Idealists of literature, painting, theater and film saw
the revolution as an opportunity for experiment, innovation,
radical freedom of expression. Just as the overthrow of the old
regime meant the liberation of the people, so these artists sought
to overthrow old cultural restrictions, while creating completely
new forms and theories which would open up the arts to the enter-
prise and spirit of the people.
Lenin saw it differently. He despised the avant-garde and thought
that art was only valuable as propaganda. The rise of Stalin only
intensified this instinctive hostility towards the artist. "Realism"
in Soviet doctrine meant positive depictions of happy, industrious
workers, of a society where there was no oppression and nothing to
rebel against, unless it was the foreign imperialists. Over the years
it also meant an increasing glorification, practically a deification,
of Stalin himself as the embodiment of this society. This numbing,
simple-minded recipe, nothing less than an attempt at mass brain-
washing, could only be achieved by the eradication of all concern for
form and style in art. There were many reasons for this, but perhaps
the most important was the basic distrust of the despot for anything
subtle or ambiguous. The artist's concern with style is inherently
ambiguous, since style deals with the way things are presented more
than with what is presented in terms of content. When an ideology, a
doctrine of mass political utility, is the only consideration in art,
then not only style but metaphor itself is suspect. The fact that
Eisenstein's OCTOBER, surely one of the most overtly propagand-
istic films ever made, was criticized for its formal abstraction,
demonstrates how far the Soviets would go to squash anything
experimental, no matter how well-intentioned. Imagination was too
dangerous to be tolerated because it presupposed an intelligent and
therefore critical mind instead of a lumpen mass.
The brash young film directors of the 20s were to discover this,
to their dismay. Kuleshov, Vertov, Pudovkin - all were accused of
"formalism" or "ideological deficiencies" at one time or another.
Dovzhenko, after several triumphs, was condemned as "counter-
revolutionary" and "defeatist" in 1930 for his masterpiece EARTH,
which to our modern eyes appears as an unabashedly pro-Soviet film.
Artists were censored, prevented from working, humiliated by Party
condemnation, imprisoned and executed. If they were lucky they
managed to leave the country. Eisenstein's own mentor, the poet and
dramatist Mayakovsky, killed himself while under arrest.
Eisenstein himself was a most self-assured and assertive
young man. With his wide grin, high forehead and curly hair, he
looked like an impish, overgrown child. He was a brilliant conver-
sationalist, and if he warmed to a person he was kind and friendly to
a fault. But he also made a point of ignoring status and rank, he
could be sharp and dismissive with his comments, and brazen with
his jokes, which rubbed some people the wrong way. His film style
was audacious to the extreme, carrying the theory of montage as far
as it could go, which seemed much too far to the cultural commissars.
Yet he remained immune to serious political pressure longer than
anyone else in the Soviet film movement. The reason was the inter-
national success of POTEMKIN, which lent prestige to the Soviet
film industry. Because of that movie, Eisenstein was one of the
most famous directors in the world, so for the time being he was
tolerated. But he had enemies, and his most determined enemy was
Boris Shumyatsky, a film authority who never made a film, a man who
thought that the technique of montage was nothing but "bourgeois
trickery." Story-telling was all that mattered, according to him,
and for that you needed simple scripts with characters who
represented the vices and virtues of the warring classes. Shumyatsky
seemed to have a personal animus against the irreverent and
flamboyant Eisenstein - it was he that spearheaded the attacks on
OCTOBER and OLD AND NEW.
It is important to remember one fact about Eisenstein. He was a
true believer in the revolution. He never questioned the basic tenets
of socialism, nor that capitalism was the enemy of freedom, nor the
idea of class struggle as the basis for understanding society and
history. One might speculate, as some have, that he felt guilty about
his affluent origins (his parents had been moderately wealthy) and
therefore stayed loyal to Soviet ideology longer than the other
avant-gardists. But I don't see any reason to doubt that his views
were based on strong intellectual convictions that were wholly in
keeping with his character. Eisenstein's struggle as an artist was
not as a dissident against communism, but as a communist whose
ways of expressing himself, as well as a certain openness in his
attitude and variety in his beliefs, were constantly being challenged
by the authorities.
At any rate, he was at the peak of his confidence and fame in the
late 1920s, and when a reason eventually presented itself for the
U.S.S.R. to send someone to the west to make movies, he was the
obvious choice.
*
The first section of QUE VIVA MEXICO!, following the prologue,
is called "Sandunga," which is the name of a slow Oaxacan folk song
which was to have accompanied it on the soundtrack. It takes place
in a village located in a lush tropical forest at the southern tip of
Mexico, near the Pacific. We see palm trees, monkeys, parrots, alli-
gators gliding in the water. A young Indian woman, bare-breasted,
lazily paddles a boat down the winding river. There are shots of a
happily indolent couple lounging in a hammock. The narration speaks
of an ancient, sensual paradise. Gradually the episode focuses on a
young girl of the village who wishes to be married. It is the custom
of her people that a girl must complete a necklace of gold coins,
which she earns by working and saving her whole life - the necklace
will be her dowry. At last she sells enough bananas to gain her final
coin. We meet her fiance, a quiet smiling young man. We see the old
women of the village examining the bride's necklace, testing the gold
with their teeth. Finally comes the day of the ceremony. The wedding
pair walk happily from the small church. There is a lively dance,
very simple and festive, and we see a little lamb wandering among the
dancers. Eventually we fade to the tropical forest again, the parrots
and monkeys, and we see the husband walking out of the thick jungle
to a clearing. It is two years later. His wife and son are waiting
for him, and they laugh and play contentedly together.
Everything in this section is so soft and blissful, so full of
romance, that it's hard to believe it was shot by Eisenstein. For the
first time in his film career he indulges in a feast of the senses.
There seems to be no political stance here. Neither the camera nor
the narrator indicate any judgment. If anything, "Sandunga" is guilty
of idealizing and even exoticizing its subjects. Some of the shots
are very pretty, and there are examples of the geometric visual com-
position - a face in the foreground with three figures in the back,
for instance - that is so characteristic of the film as a whole.
Nevertheless this first section of Alexandrov's reconstruction is
by far the weakest. It lacks purpose and forcefulness. At times it
seems not much more than a bland travelogue, the kind you might see
in a short newsreel of the period. Alexandrov's choice of music is
quite unfortunate - instead of the Oaxacan song accompanied by guitar
we hear an overly sweet Spanish-tinged melody played by syrupy
strings with a bit of harpsichord. It sounds like something you used
to hear in an elevator or a dentist's office.
I imagine that Eisenstein would have turned "Sandunga" into
something more interesting in the cutting room, injected his usual
sense of rhythm and sharp visual contrast. But as it is, it still
indicates something new for him - a resurfacing of an aspect of
himself that had long been repressed. The romantic artist in him had
been put aside during his years in the Red Army, and there was
little sign of him in the great polemical films of the 1920s. But in
Mexico this side of him was awakened. There is a feeling of essential
goodness, love of life, and a love for the young women and matriarchs
in "Sandunga," perhaps reflecting his strong bond with his own
mother. We see also a respect for the Indian peoples who have main-
tained many traditional ways in the face of modern encroachment.
This was somewhat heretical in Soviet terms, since dogma would
usually view the Indians as a primitive stage of historical develop-
ment which required education and modernization in order to achieve
freedom.
Yet in all this Eisenstein still seems like a naive outsider, his
vision of tropical life owing more to the idyllic imaginings of his
youth than to the everyday reality he saw before him. It is like a
gentle dream about a foreign country, which in its very foreignness
symbolizes the home he longs for and to which he can never return.
Chris Dashiell, 1998
(This is the first part of a four-part article on QUE VIVA MEXICO!)
Devin Rambo
cinema-related topics, and your writing is some of the best I've read.
I'm really glad you're sharing your research and insights with the rest
of us, and I'm looking forward eagerly to reading the other 3 parts of
the series.
-Devin
James Frame
It is a fine essay, a pleasure to read -- a refreshing change from some of the
irrelevant prattle that has been all too common lately.
jbf
Catherine Brancato
"definitive" version of "Battleship Potemkin." Maybe one of you Eisenstein
experts could help me.
I've seen this film twice, and each version seemed to contain an edited
Odessa Steps sequence. Primarily, near the end of the scene after the baby
carriage hits bottom, one of the guards/military guys/whatever hits an old
women in the face, causing her glasses to break and blood to run down her
face. (This is shown well in a series of shots from David Cook's book "A
History of Narrative Film.") Also, I once saw a documentary-like show
about the sequence (I think it was called "Steps") which also showed the
scene.
Are there some copies of the film which have more graphic scenes? Were
some of the shots "lost" over the years? Which distributor or edition
offers the best version? I believe my copy is from Republic Pictures--it
also doesn't include any sound accompaniment, so I'm looking to replace
mine with a better version.
Thanks,
Cat
Chris Dashiell
For some reason, there are several video versions that are missing
certain shots. That includes the Republic version. I don't know
why, but I would speculate that there are different prints out there
and some of them were cut at some point, perhaps long ago. The
video I own is a complete uncut version put out by Allied Artists
Corporation.
Dashiell
Catherine Brancato
> > Potemkin." Maybe one of you Eisenstein experts could help me.
> For some reason, there are several video versions that are missing
> certain shots. That includes the Republic version. I don't know
> why, but I would speculate that there are different prints out there
> and some of them were cut at some point, perhaps long ago. The
> video I own is a complete uncut version put out by Allied Artists
> Corporation.
>
Okay--my next question is, how do I get this version? I looked up Allied
Artists on the Internet and arrived at a German(?) website
(http://www.wunder.de or http://www.pro-sieben.de/wunder). I scanned the
site the best I could (not knowing the language and all), but I couldn't
find anything about Battleship Potemkin. Can you recommend a place? I
also checked out Kino, Critic's Choice, Reel.com, and Amazon--they all
seem to have the same edited version.
I also found these: 1. Facets has a 65 min version with sound,
distributor not listed. 2. My local video retail chain, Suncoast, can
order a 65 min version from KLT (they didn't know what that stood for).
Both retail at $29.95. I'd hate to waste that much money on a version I
might not be satisfied with.
BTW, how long is your version? Please help!
Cat
(unhappy in the U.S.--and not because of Clinton)