The Cranes Are Flying

There seems to be no easier method of praising an aspect of the "enemy" culture than to note that the book, play, or symphony under discussion is "above politics." And thus we have heard that the artistry of Wagner, Furtwangler, Prokofiev, or Shostakovich is above politics, even though we know how deeply the work of these men was influenced by their political environments.

And now the Russians, who for years have been sending a series of movies to New York which amounted to little other than propagandistic harangues (with the Bolshoi thrown in to keep things clean), present us with a warm, deeply moving, and totally human film. This is difficult to reconcile with our concept of a culture that is alien, coldly technological, and unconcerned with problems not directly relating to the Soviet State. So we describe it as a miracle, an artistic exception that proves the rule which we feel comfortable believing in; and, finally we want to conclude that it is above politics.

But now our dilemma forms a circle. Clearly the Soviet Union is proud of this film. It was sent to the Cannes Film Festival where it won the grand prize, and in 1958 it served to inaugurate the American-Soviet cultural exchange. It is hard to believe that the Soviet government would try to make political hay out of totally non-political material. Furthermore, the work is concretely political since it has, above all, an anti-war theme. And so this film is not above politics, and yet it has stirred audiences throughout the world, and had an exceptionally strong effect upon Americans.

The Cranes are Flying describes the shattering effect of war in highly personal terms. Director Mikhail Kalatozov presents us with a young couple deeply in love. There is no making-out on the screen, Boris and Veronica exchange no profound glances of desire; in fact there are no cinematic cliches which we are supposed to translate as meaning Love. But there is an affection between these people that is simply expressed, and simple to comprehend. And then there is war, and Boris is a volunteer.

This presents a great opportunity for a glorification of the Soviet cause, but Kalatozov does not succumb. Instead, when the girls from the factory committee wave goodbye to Boris with promises to fulfill and overfulfill their production quotas, they are gently told to come off it. The film also reveals bribery and corruption in Soviet society with an extremely welcome frankness.

The acting of Tatyana Samoilova, who plays Veronica, is as subtle and effective as her face is beautiful. It is her existence which is demolished by the war; she loses her parents, and needing love desperately, is unfaithful to Boris. The story centers on her struggle to find something worth living for amidst the ruins.

In a scene of unforgettable anguish she finds herself incapable of helping a wounded soldier whose sweet-heart has left him. At the end of the war, though, despite her own suffering, she regains confidence in the demolished but existing world. And the hope that the suffering of war will have ended forever bring out a bittersweet courage in her which powerfully radiates this hope throughout the theater.

There is nothing alien about The Cranes are Flying. It is a sympathetic, vibrant film, enriched by almost poetic photography and poignant music. Political but not doctrinaire, it serves to indicate that the Soviet political experience is not totally foreign and incomprehensible to Americans, and that the Russian fear of war is a very real and understandable fact. It is also heartening to see Soviet culture view itself with a little lightness, instead of repeating the more familiar encomiums.

The Cranes are Flying will be at the Brattle for a week. But don't worry if you can't make it; this one will be around for a long, long, time.