Tag Archives: Soviet

APOCRYPHA CANDIDATE: THE KINGDOM OF CROOKED MIRRORS (1963)

Korolevstvo krivykh zerkal

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DIRECTED BY: Aleksandr Rou

FEATURING: Olga Yukina, Tatyana Yukina, Andrey Fayt, Lidiya Vertinskaya, Arkadi Tsinman, Andrei Stapran

PLOT: A spoiled young girl enters the Land of Mirrors, where she goes on a quest with her mirror twin to rescue a boy imprisoned by the Prime Minister of the Kingdom of Crooked Mirrors and his devious daughter and Toad courtier.

Still from Kingdom of Crooked Mirrors (1963)

WHY IT MIGHT JOIN THE APOCRYPHA: A colorful explosion of baroque and fantastic conceits that’s a set designer’s dream project, the lavish fantasy Kingdom of Crooked Mirrors never fails to astound with its visual invention (not to mention odd details like the piano-playing monkey). To be properly considered for the Apocrypha, however, we’d like to see an actual restored version rather than the cheapo dubbed Something Weird print currently available. But by all means, keep the English language version as a supplement.

COMMENTS: In the 1950s and 60s, American producers, desperate for B-inventory to fill the teeming drive-ins, increasingly turned to foreign productions to stock their larders. This was especially true of children’s films: kids are less discriminating moviegoers, just throw some spectacle and slapstick on screen and you can keep them busy for 90 minutes while moms and dads do whatever it is moms and dads do when the kids aren’t paying attention. To meet this market,  plundered Mexico for dime store fairy tales. made inroads into the Soviet Union, re-editing halfway decent movies like the planetary exploration saga Planeta Bur (1962) with newly shot footage into ridiculous cut-n-paste monstrosities such as Voyage to the Planet of Prehistoric Women (1968). More to the point for today’s topic, AIP Pictures acquired 3 respectable folklore-based films from talented Soviet director Aleksandr Ptushko and desecrated them with shoddy editing and bad dubbing (in the case of Sadko, they turned the eponymous Russian hero into “Sinbad,” trying to fool viewers into thinking they were seeing a Ray Harryhausen epic.) These AIP knockoffs were so cheap and weird that they became popular entries in the canon.

Kingdom of Crooked Mirrors falls loosely into this genre, with one difference: although a dubbed version of this Soviet variation on “Through the Looking Glass” was prepared, there doesn’t appear to be any evidence it screened in the USA. The American version was copyrighted by Walter Manley Enterprises, a company whose only other known contribution to cinema history are a series of compilations of the Japanese superhero series “Starman” that they edited together into semi-coherent feature films for the television market. Kingdom may have seen a few televised screenings after midnight or Continue reading APOCRYPHA CANDIDATE: THE KINGDOM OF CROOKED MIRRORS (1963)

CAPSULE: SPIDER (1991)

Zirneklis

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DIRECTED BY: Vasili Mass

FEATURING: Aurelija Anuzhite, , Algirdas Paulavicius

PLOT: A teenage girl who dreams of spiders attracts the attention of a mysterious painter.

COMMENTS: A priest and an artist walk into a bar. . . well, actually they meet in the artist’s studio and drink coffee, but they have a revealing conversation nonetheless. The priest prefers the artist’s early works, painted in the style of the Italian Renaissance. In contrast, his current works appear much darker, inspired by the likes of Hieronymous Bosch and Caravaggio. “It’s a changing world,” the artist says by way of explanation, “and we’re changing with it.” “We’re changing,” the priest corrects him, “and so we change the world.”

Spider opens with a quotation from Sigmund Freud (“Subconscious sexual desires are closely linked to the sense of fear”). This sets it up to be a softcore tale of burgeoning adolescent sexuality, though one with serious art-house vibes (in an early scene, the main character imagines herself entering a Pre-Raphaelite bower where she clutches a bouquet of pink flowers to her heart as trickles of blood seep between her fingers). The film then abruptly cycles through various genres, from a Gothic mystery in a haunted medieval castle to, by the nightmarish finale, a full-blown seventies-style satanic horror. Like its antagonist, it constantly changes form, leaving the viewer wondering just where it will go next.

The plot seems simple enough at first. The priest commissions the artist to paint an Annunciation scene for a homeless shelter. The artist spots teenaged Vita at the church and tells the priest he’ll only take the commission if she’ll model for the Virgin Mary. The priest agrees and says he’ll convince Vita to pose for the painting.

Though ostensibly a wholesome girl, one who chooses to hang out at church rather than in night clubs, vivid dreams and hallucinations of spiders plague Vita’s sleeping and waking moments. Her dreams and reality continue to intersect after her first visit to the artist’s studio. One of the other models tells Vita to beware of the artist since he was once bitten by a spider. He then begins to haunt her dreams, along with other ominous black-robed figures and insects.

Made in Latvia on the cusp of the Soviet Union’s collapse, Spider feels like a time capsule of its era, but also of earlier filmmaking conventions. Scenes of paintings come to life feature actual actors posed on detailed sets in elaborate costumes. The titular spider is a massive puppet with many, partly animated, writhing appendages. The ending includes practical effects worthy of Luigi Cozzi, evoking nostalgia for the days when corpses routinely exploded with glue and Jello. Director Mass is also obsessed with lighting effects; soft focus lens flares and rainbows characterize nearly every shot. The score, too, travels through the decades. The main theme, a pastoral with pan pipes, accompanies Classical, opera, and late ’80s synth stings whenever the suspense ratchets up.

After waking from a nightmare with spider bites on her back, Vita’s mother takes her to a doctor. Upon examination, the bites are gone; the doctor diagnoses auto-hypnotic suggestion and recommends a period of rest in the country. Vita’s mother then sends her to visit her aunt, who lives in a castle on an island. Since the modeling job creates conflict between mother and daughter, the priest decides to call off the commission. He tells the artist Vita will no longer be his model, then leaves his studio before the artist can argue with him. The scene then repeats, and in the second version, the artist informs the priest he will not be dismissing Vita. She now belongs to him, and she will be his, until he finishes the painting.

Meanwhile, Vita happily moves into her aunt’s castle where she’s warned against a mysterious bedroom that’s off-limits. The isolated island community, peopled with various strange characters, provides a verdant setting for more imaginative erotic set-pieces. By this point in the narrative, a critical viewer might fault the director for introducing a series of plot threads without ever tying them up.

A more charitable viewer may assume the director intended to create a tangled web of the plot. The artist tells the priest, “Both evil and good are threads of a spider web. . . untangle it and they’re gone, both good and evil.” Mass complicates the narrative as Spider moves beyond the highly eroticized reveries of a horny teenager. There are shades of Pygmalion and Galatea, and one possible interpretation attributes Vita’s experiences to Stendhal Syndrome. Either way, far from being a merely evil foil to the good priest, the artist comes across as a much more ambiguous character, though in the end, he’s vanquished (or is he?) by the sign of the cross.

The artist’s dialogue centers on themes of surface appearances, control, manipulation, and illusion. He tells Vita appearances are deceptive because they hide the soul, and “the soul is a great mystery.” By the end, Spider suggests the pertinent issue isn’t Vita’s sexual allure. It’s her dreams, the secrets of her soul, which beg the question, in a rapidly changing world, how can you tell the difference between mirage and reality?

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“…psychedelic and often jaw-dropping Eastern European mash up of Walerian Borowczyk and Alain Robbe-Grillet…”- Nathaniel Thompson, Mondo-Digital

FANTASIA 2025: APOCRYPHA CANDIDATE: THE DEVIL’S BRIDE (1974)

Velnio nuotaka

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DIRECTED BY: Arunas Zebriunas

FEATURING: Gediminas Girdvainis, Vasyl Symchych, Regina Varnaite, Vaiva Mainelyte, Regimantas Adomaitis

PLOT: Cast down from Heaven, minor demon Pinchiukas tricks an Earthly miller into signing away his daughter.

WHY IT MIGHT JOIN THE APOCRYPHA: Featuring a bumbling God, a prancy little devil, and non-stop rock and roll and orchestra, this Cold War relic bubbles over with breezy “what the Hell?” charm.

COMMENTS: I don’t always watch devil-summoned naiads pursue a hunky suitor, but when I do, I prefer them on horseback. At a slightly too-long seventy-five minutes, The Devil’s Bride catches the eye and raises the eyebrow from the start, commencing its cavalcade of song and dance with a gilded frame bounding the Lord and a host of singing cherubim. God dozes on and off, with the angels discovering the temptations of feasting, drinking, and smooching during their brief moments without supervision. Cue the music transition from the classic big blast hymnal choir. At one point, God’s thronal bell loses its clapper, and chaos ensues for just too long while he attempts to fix it. By the time he rings it to restore order, several of the Heavenly host are ripe for a fall: lady angels losing grace in go-go dance outfits, fellow angels done up in full 19th-century foppery. And we meet our anti-hero, Pinchiukas, fallen into a pond, depressed and ready to begin scheming.

Some of my confusion about the plot flow stems certainly from a regrettable lack of knowledge about Lithuanian folklore. (Some, too, doubtless from the punch-drunk mental state I was in after very little sleep the preceding night.) Are gay angels a recognized aspect of Soviet Lithuanian Catholic doctrine? Who is that incessantly aria-ing blonde on the boat who immediately falls for the homely miller? How is it the local swain so swiftly seduces—and is seduced by—the daughter? (Was it his manly-but-romantic chomping of a daisy flower head that clinched the deal)? What is up with that elaborate gold-carved window frame on the mill exterior? How about those disembodied black-elbow-gloved hands at the devil’s beck and call? And why is a devil, but not an angel or God, bound so scrupulously by legal contract verbiage?

This final question is one I have for supernatural folktales more broadly. Suffice to say, the questions raised are as superfluous as any answers that might be furnished by a more illuminated viewer.

Despite stalling out on occasion, and despite the repetitiveness of every one of the songs, The Devil’s Bride is a romp that borders on the madcap, particularly thanks to leading man Gediminas Girdvainis as the little devil. It was pleasant to observe that, confused though I was about the occult mechanics, the portrayal of “evil” was ultimately sympathetic. Ne’er shall I forget his pomp and ridiculousness on the day of his wedding, with fancy chapeau, hunting-red jacket, and his sheer, skin-tight white leggings. Comely daughters and swains the world over, beware the appeal of the devil in tights.

The Devil’s Bride is restored and presented by Deaf Crocodile, available now in a limited edition Blu-ray, with a standard edition scheduled for a mid-September release.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“…a 78-minute audio-visual barrage of ideas, music, and chaotic storytelling that is not for the faint of heart… feels somehow both like an Eastern Bloc Babes in Toyland style fantasy and also as if Jodorowsky made a musical… I’ll be damned if I’ll ever forget it.”–J. Hurtado, Screen Anarchy (festival screening)

CAPSULE: PALMS (1993)

Ладони, AKA Ladoni

DIRECTED BY: Artour Aristakisyan

PLOT: A man tries to connect with his unborn son by seeing glimpses of him in the faces of people he meets in the slums of late-Soviet Moldova.

Still from Palms (1993)

COMMENTSPalms is a pseudo-documentary black-and-white film shot single-handedly by Artour Aristakisyan over five years in Chisinau, Moldova. It is a haunting journey through faith, identity, and what it means to exist. When it was first screened in Moscow in the early 1990s, it blindsided everyone. Few people saw it, but those who did will never forget it. Even compared to other eccentric Russian films of Soviet parallel cinema or necrorealism, Palms is something else entirely. But unlike the ironic works of Yevgeny Yufit or Andrei I., Palms overflows with intense passion and austere ideology.

The film is composed of ten short stories about real people—beggars, psychiatric patients, oddballs, cripples, and others—who behave like “Bodies without Organs” (a concept from philosopher Gilles Deleuze). So, who are these people? There’s an unwashed woman who has supposedly lain on the ground for 40 years, waiting for Jesus. A boy who swore not to move until the Kingdom of Heaven arrives. An old woman who clings to the severed head of an SS officer—her lover—a clear nod to both Salome and Judith. A grandfather who collects trash from the dead, with “the border of Israel running across his face.” A man named Srulik, who kisses a dove—an allusion to the Holy Spirit.

Each kooky character, with their own tragic story, is woven into a cryptic narrative voiced by the filmmaker, who speaks as “the Father” addressing his “Unborn Son,” a child about to be aborted (an allusion to “the Logos—Jesus before the Incarnation). The Father (voiced by Aristakisyan himself) is the only speaking character in the film. The central theme of his calm, solemn narration is a deep distrust of the material world, which is portrayed as inherently evil. Earth, in this worldview, is the creation of the Demiurge—a false god behind all societal systems. Although Aristakisyan claims he followed these drifters, outcasts, and madmen for five years and wrote down what they said, it’s clear that many of them are figments of his imagination.

Though the film seems disconnected from any specific cinematic tradition, Palms shares thematic affinities with early Christian thought, including Pauline theology and the Bogomil heresy. “Father Aristakisyan” proclaims:

“This is the System. It doesn’t have borders anymore. The System will find you wherever you go. So, kid, before it’s too late, focus on your salvation. You have your own light. Use it, and you’ll escape the System. For now, don’t get distracted by all this nonsense. No, don’t think about traveling abroad. After death, you’ll have plenty of time to travel. Your next baptism will be by fire. And then it’ll be too late to pick a side.”

To the Paulicians, everything on Earth was the work of Sataniel—the Demiurge, the god of the Old Testament. Jesus Christ, in contrast, was the Good God, made of “subtle” matter. They viewed Christ as a kind of phantom, not truly human—an idea known as docetism, associated with Serapion of Antioch. Aristakisyan’s concept of the System aligns with this Paulician worldview: not merely a political structure, but something much larger. It’s not socialism or capitalism, or even human society as such. The System is the entire material realm—factories, asylums, homes, and everything else.

Ironically, Aristakisyan (or his on-screen persona) even ridicules the vastness of outer space:

“I’m worried about you, kid. The sky used to be a protective ceiling—obviously made of foil. It kept me safe from the cosmos and all the crap in it. When I lived under the sky, maybe some of my thoughts didn’t come true. Now, every thought becomes real. It’s like cancer spreading everywhere, but a special kind of cancer. It keeps the body alive so the corpse can keep generating energy.”

In a nod to earlier critiques of modernity, the film hits the audience with an almost didactic intensity. Aristakisyan’s vision of the System is a heady mix of conspiracy theory and mystical philosophy, creating a spellbinding and unsettling atmosphere throughout. Thirty years later, the leading ideologist of Russian fascism, Alexander Dugin, would echo some of these themes: “The Outer Space exploration is godless and shameful. It’s a globalist fantasy preparing for the Antichrist. The Outer Space is an illusion. We need to stay faithful to Christ and the Russian land.”

The film recalls the small, priestless sects that emerged in 18th-century Russia, some of which still survive in remote regions like the Evenk taiga or the Trans-Volga steppes. One such group, the Golbeshniki, believed society itself was the kingdom of Lucifer. They buried themselves in mysterious earthen dens, burned their children in dark rites, and danced naked in the moonlight.

Despite its Paulician creed and somber tale, the film breathes of something far greater. The pallid and dappled hues that stain the frame, the wretched hovels of Chișinău, and the tranquil voice of the author together weave a spell most strange. A beauty not of this earth steals o’er the senses, ensnaring the soul in such wise that to look away becomes a sorrowful task indeed.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

[Palms’] approach certainly risks exploiting, aestheticising or exoticising human suffering. Instead, the film decontextualises its subjects without suggesting that the suffering it depicts is either unreal or picturesque. Rendering the historical as the trans-historical here functions to set extant reality into question.”–Hannah Proctor, ‘So-called waste’: Forms of Excess in Post-1960 Art, Film, and Literature’ (lecture)

IT CAME FROM THE READER-SUGGESTED QUEUE: LILAC BALL (1987)

Лиловый шар

Liloviy shar, AKA Purple Ball

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DIRECTED BY: Pavel Arsenov

FEATURING: Natalya Guseva, Vyacheslav Nevinnyy, Vyacheslav Baranov, Boris Shcherbakov

PLOT: In the year 2087, a research spacecraft discovers the wreck of “The Dark Wanderer,” a legendary doomed ship containing mysterious purple spheres.

COMMENTS: Enmity is nasty business, and were it not for one plucky little girl, the future of mankind would fall to self-destruction. So we learn in Arsenov’s science-fiction/fantasy outing, Lilac Ball. It covers a span in time from a century into mankind’s future—when computerized intelligence facilitates deep-space exploration—to the ancient past, the time of Legends, wherein man and myth coexisted (if not in harmony, then at least side by side). In those days, myriad dangers arose for the common peasant by way of the dark sorcery of Baba Yaga and her three sons.

Events kick off in grand future style. Captain Green, the commander of the Pegasus who speaks nearly as mechanically as the ship’s computer, is tasked with escorting Professor Seleznyov and his daughter Alice to a research vacation. All of a sudden, the ship’s sensors detect an anomaly: a craft too large and too strange to be found in the database. Behold, it is The Dark Wanderer, and its floating ruins contain dispiriting records of the crew’s fate, a fair number of vitreous spheres, and the lovable four-armed archaeologist, Gromozeka. The spheres contain a horrible doom, but little Alice knows just where on Earth to find the purple ball secreted—thousands of years in the past—by the Dark Wanderer’s crew to destroy humankind at just the right time.

This movie is not without its charm, and its seventy-odd-minutes breeze by on the winds of adventure and whimsy. The first act, very much typical science fiction, is well executed; the filmmakers push their skills and budget to the limit. The Pegasus’ interior design is refreshingly dissimilar from most outings of the genre, with an open-plan cockpit/convening area (tea is served often) featuring computer consoles, greenery, short staircases, and a central table for four. Zipping back thousands of years into the past—I had had no inkling of a time machine until Alice mentions it for the purposes of returning to the “Era of Legends”—is rather less satisfying, albeit involving some endearing puppetry. (The baby roc is cute—and wholly undeserving of its fate at the hands of the Wanderer’s evil crew.)

Arsenov appears to aim for an all-the-young-adult-adventure-tropes experience, but his reach, alas, exceeds his grasp. Still, it is impossible to feel hostile toward such winsome narrative meanderings of future and past.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“Curious mash-up of fantasy and science-fiction from the Soviet Union…  a strange mixture of mythologies, to be sure; part Sinbad, part fairytale, part Wizard of Oz. All in a film whose first act was straight science-fiction! There’s nothing wrong with blending genres, of course, but it’s a tricky business, and the disconnect between the two aspects of the story here is a little jarring, to say the least.” — Mark David Welsh

(This movie was nominated for review by Morgan after seeing some clips and remarking that they “resemble something that AI watched in its early stages and picked up on.” Suggest a weird movie of your own here.)