Barber Of Siberia

[Fritzi Vanderweel]

Russia1885. Travelling across Russia, Jane meets Andrei Tolstoy, an officer cadet who falls in love with her. Jane is in Russia to help the inventor McCracken secure a contract for his 'barber', a machine for cutting down the Siberian forests. For this purpose, she attempts to seduce General Radlov, the head of the Military Academy. Radlov falls in love with her and asks Tolstoy, who speaks English, to translate his proposal to Jane. The cadet, however, uses this as an opportunity to declare his own love for Jane. Radlov is humiliated but cannot punish Tolstoy who is to take the lead the next day in a production of The Marriage of Figaro before Grand Duke Aleksei. Later Jane spends the night with Tolstoy.

During the opera, Tolstoy overhears Jane continuing her advances on Radlov; in his jealous rage he assaults the general. He is arrested and accused of an attack on the Grand Duke, to which he pleads guilty to protect Jane's reputation. He is sentenced to hard labour in Siberia.

Ten years later, Jane visits Siberia with McCracken, to whom she is now married, for the inauguration of his 'barber'. She fails to see the exiled Tolstoy. Having related all of this in her letter to Andrew, she visits the boy with a photograph of his father, Andrei Tolstoy.

For two decades Nikita Mikhalkov, born into a family of the Soviet cultural elite, has been the most famous of Russian film directors both in his own country and abroad. Mikhalkov's celebrity status - consolidated in December 1997 when he became chairman of the Russian Union of Film-makers - has turned the release of his recent films into major media events in Russia, none more so than The Barber of Siberia. By the time of its premiere in the Kremlin Palace of Congresses in February 1999 the film had already generated acres of newsprint, as much because of its enormous budget (reported as $45 million) and its link to Mikhalkov's alleged desire to be president of Russia as for its epic proportions and ambitions. Here was a film that would restore national self-esteem and re-invigorate cinemagoing in Mikhalkov's native land, as well as explain the enigmas of Russian identity to expectant western audiences, perhaps even picking up the Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film on the way.

In Russia the film did attract huge and satisfied audiences, though the critical reception was mixed, if not cool. But its Cannes showing last year was a fiasco, and it subsequently failed to impress the Oscar voters. With this damaged reputation The Barber of Siberia limps belatedly into the UK.

It would be wrong to look to The Barber of Siberia for historical authenticity or cultural specificity - the film, in Mikhalkov's own words, is "not about how things were but about how things should be." So we are served a mythological stew, a souvenir Russia made up of vast birch forests and famous Moscow landmarks, epic drinking, fatal passion and doomed love leading to duel, scandal and exile in the Siberian snow. In what seems like a concession to ignorant western audiences, the hero is given a famous Russian name, Tolstoy, but to make them feel at ease this Tolstoy admits he couldn't make it to the end of Anna Karenina. Perhaps some western viewers will be satisfied with this reading of Russia, but its greatest appeal is surely to Russian audiences so exhausted by their recent tribulations that they will embrace any lazy reiteration of warmed-over clich without pausing to wonder why the young officers to whom the film is dedicated are so childish and their mentor is a drunk. Western audiences may balk, however, at being represented only by rogues, or by Sergeant 'Mad Dog' O'Leary, who thinks Mozart is a girl, and a Russian one at that.

The film's aspirations to represent the relationship between Russia and the US in symbolic form are not supported by any psychological acuity in the characterisation. The bigger the role, the more the actor flounders. Julia Ormond is too bland to convey either the scheming or the bitter regrets of Jane Callahan. Oleg Menshikov, meanwhile, an actor of great range and emotional subtlety, has been badly cast in the role of Tolstoy; pushing 40 when he made the film, he is reduced to rehearsing the pert mannerisms of an ingnu. After his embarrassing declaration to Jane in the presence of Radlov, he asks "May I be excused?", which is likely only to provoke inappropriate memories of the classroom among British audiences. The best acting comes in the cameo roles, from Marina Neelova as Tolstoy's actress mother and Elizabeth Spriggs as the countess Perepyolkina.

The exiguous and predictable plot is fleshed out by a number of grandly staged set pieces, including a ball, Russian Shrovetide celebrations, a parade before Tzsar Alexander III (played by the director himself), the production of the opera, the depredations of McCracken's monstrous machine. You can, at least, see where the money has gone. The film concludes with a sly double ending, happy for western audiences - young Andrew wins his battle over Mozart, whom he refuses to defame at his military camp - and tragic for Russians, just the way they like it: his parents are not reunited. On the way it tries first to make us laugh, then, less successfully, to make us cry through a slew of novelistic clichs. Occasionally, the film comes alive - Menshikov playing Figaro in a production of The Marriage of Figaro finally casts off the strait-jacket of having to play a much younger character; his assault on Radlov is also one of the film's most powerful scenes.

Mikhalkov's finest films Unfinished Piece for Mechanical Piano, Five Evenings and Urga demonstrate that he is best at the small scale, at the delicate rendering of intense human emotion. His old-fashioned and seemingly interminable Barber discards these qualities as insouciantly as McCracken despoils the Siberian forest. What remains seems ill suited as a model, either for Russian society or for Russian cinema.

In my Friday state of mind I got to daydreaming about great art and film. Barber of Siberia came to mind and I was fondly remembering the masterpiece that several scenes of that film are. I decided to google and see if anyone considers barber of Siberia a missed classic. Lo and behold I came to this review.

But as an ardent Russophil (my Russian emigre friends tell me I have a good knowledge of Russian History), I found the film quite silly, more slapstick than epic. I could only stomach about half an hour of it, and believe me I do have a taste for the Russian epic, the longer the better; and I did earn the respect of my Russian friends for standing right through a Russian Orthodox Pascha service

The movie is worth watching as an American I highly recommend it as it speaks to the cultural misunderstandings between Russians and Americans and teaches us a lot about ourselves and how not so different we are!

The film is fabulous, you either are completely ignorant about Russian literature and culture or have a serious taste problem. I am sorry for you that you cannot understand and appreciate this piece of art. On the other hand you like Burnt by the Sun which explains a lot why you cannot. It is one of the most overestimated films, especially if you compare it to a masterpiece such as Destiny of a Man.

IF YOU CAND UNDERSTAND THAT- YOU ARE EXTREMELY STYPED!!!! If you have never seen a Russian dramas that do not even try to criticize them! They lifted not stupid! they contain historical and spiritual significance! this is not a dull film for idiots who are ready to watch garbage million times! At present, this film will see only the Russian people!

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This is part of a series about my journey across Russia on the Trans-Siberian Railway, from St Petersburg to Vladivostok, in the summer of 2018. This part covers my two nights in Irkutsk, in the heart of Siberia.

After the game I stepped into the cocktail lounge next door in search for any music and excuse to dance. The place was small and upscale, with patrons looking too-cool-to-dance and dressed much nicer than me. I lost the motivation.

This promenade, according to Russians on the Yekaterinburg-Irkutsk train, should be bustling with families and buskers and strolling seniors. This Sunday morning it was empty and silent for its entire visible stretch. The other side, across the Angara River, seemed equally uneventful with its shrubby fields and industrial structures.

We crossed Angara River to the west bank of Irkutsk. Instead of soviet-era boulevards, monuments, and government buildings in central Irkutsk, the west bank was more residential, with two-lane roads sparsely lined with three-to-six story apartment buildings, barber shops, and gas stations.

Opposite the ticket booth was a door on which a sign said shows start every 30 minutes, warned not to enter, and prohibited photographs. Behind the door, evidenced by the barks of seals, commands of the microphoned trainer, splashes of water, and occasional clapping emanating from it, a show was in progress.

Several more people strolled in as we waited for the show, always with small children or grandchildren. The kids begged for plush toys and parents pointed at cute nerpa photos on the walls to distract them. I considered leaving more than once.

Without missing a beat the ringmaster rattled into her wireless microphone and introduced Lastya and Winnie-Pooh as they entered the pool through an underwater tunnel. The audience greeted them with an applause and they responded in kind.

By the time I decided against depriving one of the present children of this souvenir, the auction concluded at 300 rubles ($4.60) and the painting was rolled up and handed to the winner and their delighted kids. I still got my story.

I returned to central Irkutsk, this time to the tourist district, replete with bars, bad restaurants, a trendy coffee shop, expensive gift shops, and, to my delight, a barbershop that could, after some convincing in strained Russian, give me a lineup.

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