Andrey Zvyagintsev
Loveless

The talented Russian director Zvyagintsev is not fond of light subjects. After watching the gigantic Leviathan, a colossal and demanding masterpiece, I expected nothing less from a film titled Loveless. Yet the filmmaker managed to surprise me, not because he changed his perspective, but for his ability to reformulate and update his pitch-black view of Russia.

It almost seems that from Leviathan to Loveless there is a leap, a fence is jumped that separates the ancient, immobile twentieth-century Russia in its aberrations from the current Russia, which, while inheriting post-Soviet contradictions, introduces elements of modernity. We are no longer in a rural reality; we are in a city dominated by smartphones, the internet, computers, dilapidated buildings, and poorly lit streets, where drunken young girls flirt with the first guy that comes along.

The drama is always immense, irredeemable, all-encompassing, but the vision is anesthetized, with few outbursts of overt despair. There is no need to provide a comprehensive picture of Russia, because that is already crystallized in the symbols of Leviathan. A further step is taken, defining a less patriarchal, less violent society, yet irredeemably corrupt: in values, habits, and the evanescent presence of authorities. It's no longer a truly patriarchal society adhering to orthodoxy but continues to pretend to be, secretly harboring a selfish hedonism even more dangerous than the Western kind because it descends upon a social fabric unprepared for such benefits. A society addicted to unexpected prosperity.

But Loveless, unlike its predecessor, is not just a film about Russia. The story has a general appeal that can be applied to other realities. And it is a very simple, linear story. Yet it is great cinema, both for the aforementioned socio-political nuances and for the pure quality of the directorial work. Here we are at levels of absolute excellence and meticulous attention to detail in the definition of every single frame. In this way, the issues assume a new and different vitality, because cinema is great not only for what it talks about but especially for how it presents things.

So when you find yourself in front of certain sex scenes, you want to stand up and applaud in the middle of the theater. For the preciousness of the camera movements, slight yet fundamental; for the handling of the actors' movements, who make love realistically without becoming pornographic, without showing the private parts; for the use of lights, of the seesawing visibility, achieving a deep but refined vision, not pornographic, precisely.

But there are so many ingenious ideas purely from a directing and staging point of view. From dialogues on delicate issues while doing normal things, like eating at the company canteen or getting your hair done by a hairdresser, to deliberately angled shots in a car, to insinuate an oblique, unhealthy, degenerate relationship. To the subtlest nuances, not fundamental, but that give breath to the vision of not exactly light facts: every moment is subject to an aesthetic reformulation, a shot from above is enough, a slight lateral movement between the trees of the forest, making the red vests of volunteers searching for Alyosha appear and disappear.

A despair that this time doesn't even have the comfort of nature. And faith, which in Leviathan proved fallible, here doesn't even touch the events. In short, the decomposition of the Russian social corpse continues, but this time there is even less catharsis, less regurgitation, because the dramas and lacerations are experienced in quiet desperation, on the edge between deep guilt and disinterest, even towards one's own child. An anesthetized world, where even behind sex there's hardly any love: there is always a second aim, another purpose, with women assuming the traits of embittered old ladies or young Venuses who set their traps for coarse men, without shades of soul.

8/10