
"How long will this go on?"
"I don't know. Forever, most likely"
"I don't know. Forever, most likely"
Principly remembered today as the film that brought Russian director Andrei Tarkovsky to worldwide fame, Andrei Rublev is a biopic of the 15th century Russian painter of the same name. I can't say I was at all familiar with who Andrei Rublev was before seeing this film, but it's not really neccessarily a film about this historical figure anyway. Tarkovsky has created a chronicle of medieval life, capturing the fatility of the dark ages and creating a simulacrum of the era that feels like an eerie time-travelling portal into an imagined past. Realistically, we can't ever know what this long-past age was truly like - we're so removed from it by time and knowledge that all we can do is infer from sources that aren't alwats 100% reliable. But even with this in mind... I don't know, I just feel like this is the most likely representation of the middle ages I've ever seen. Everything about it feels disturbingly right.
Andrei Rublev (Anitoli Solonitsyn) was an painter for the church, his talent for religious iconography raised him highly in the esteem of his peers. Tarkovsky revisits Rublev's life and times at different points with such a complete lack of majesty or reverence that it's like the film itself took a vow against pride. Rublev is a humble and pious figure, unassuming despite history's remembrance of him, and he even spends the latter parts of the film in a self-imposed muteness. It's a vow taken as much for his own sins as the sins that permeate his world at his every turn.
It's quite a long film, running at around three and a half hours, and shot in a kind of black and white that's so dreary it seems almost as if the film were made during the years that it's set. I say this as a warning; the film is a heavy undertaking in more than one sense of the word. It isn't boring but it has a pace of it's own, almost hypnotic and transformational, like a mass.
Andrei Rublev begins with a prologue depicting a man attempting to invent the hot air balloon, a strange sequence as it starts almost without a context. Some characters are shown racing against time to commit a blasphemous act in the name of progress as their detractors bay for them to stop. The balloon actually launches with its passenger, prompting a series of freewheeling aerial shots at once both disorientating and godly, and eventually comes down to Earth to kill its pioneering pilot. It's an Icarus-like moment that establishes the nature of the middle ages - a world ruled by chaos, fear, enterprise and God.

I made a few notes on the film and its chapters, so I'll label the rest of this article accordingly. I advise you not to read on if you want to avoid spoilers...
The Jester: Silence falls in an alehouse after three monks (including Rublev) enter it to find shelter. Observing the awkward silence and the lewd antics of the resident clown, one remarks, "God sent priests, but the devil sent jesters". The clown is punished accordingly (in an unconnected act) by soldiers after the holy men leave, reinforcing the values of the era. It's a rough and miserable land of violence and ignorance, and there are at least two ways to interpret what just happened. The first is that the doctrine of the Church gives an idealistic creedence to the tyrany of those in charge, vindicating their power. The second is that this is a dangerously ignorant time where the strictness of religion helped keep chaos at bay. Much of the subsequent screentime continues to examine this theme.
Theophanes the Greek: We're given a sense of who Andrei Rublev is via the thoughts and impressions of one of his contemporaries. It helps place Rublev into the context of his time, and also alludes to the film's ongoing themes relating to intellectualism and fate. This section also helps open up the main narrative strands of the film, elaborating on the characters of Kirill (Ivan Lapikov) and Danil (Nikolai Grinko) - Andrei's fellow monks. Kirill in particular is jealous of the credit that Rublev gets, and leaves their monastery rather dramatically - citing the institution's un-Christian adoption of capitalistic ambitions as the reason behind this schism. Tarkovsky presents it all rather undramatically though, it's filmed dispassionately, as if God is watching petty human events and doesn't attach any measure of importance to them.
This part of the film ends with a recreation of Jesus' crucifixion (reset in the harsh Russian winter), whilst Rublev talks about his faith and view of Jesus. It's an effective coda to the chapter because a lot of this part of the film focuses on other characters talking about Rublev's fame, yet it ends with Rublev himself demonstrating his humility and preoccupation with religion. In a way, this foreshadows the path of Rublev's life.
The Holiday: Rublev and his cohort get caught up in and observe a Paganistic sex ritual. It ends badly for the Pagans when they're discovered by soldiers, and Rublev is left to meditate on the sinful nature of the sex and violence he has just witnessed and was almost a part of. I believe the point of this sequence is to help the viewer step outside of the middle ages and think about the era's values... which is worse? The free love of the Pagans? Or the violence visited upon them for their hereticism?

The Last Judgment: Rublev is ordered (commissioned) to paint The Last Judgment inside a new cathedral by the Grand Prince (Yuri Nazarov) but he finds himself unable to conform to someone else's ideas as he prefers to follow his own artistic instincts when painting. I guess this could be a metaphor for Tarkovsky's work as a director in the Soviet Union - trying to make projects under the strict eye of the State Committee for Cinematography (who would interfere with Andrei Rublev's distribution due to thematic content that didn't gel with the current political atmosphere of the USSR). Rublev's inability to move forward with The Last Judgment becomes symbolic of the frustration that must've been part and parcel of medieval life.
Worryingly, we also see (in flashback) what the Grand Prince does with artists once they've finished the work he commissions - he puts their eyes out so that no one else can ever ask them to replicate what they've done for him. I don't really want to say that this is a further metaphor for the plight of the artists in any era, but I'm sure something along those lines could be read into it.
The Raid: Political machinations between the Grand Prince and his ambitious brother lead to a brutal attack on the town of Vladimir by marauding Tartar warriors. This is probably the most disturbing part of the entire film, a long and drawn out orgy of callousness and cruelty that sees Rublev's adherence to his faith sorely tested. This chapter infamously depicts the onscreen murder of a horse* and also making memorable use of slow motion (such as the scene where Foma [Mikhail Kononov] is shot by an arrow before falling into a stream). Prior to all this we're also introduced to Durochka (Irma Rausch), a mute and mentally disabled young woman who embodies the concept of the 'holy fool'. Whilst in 'The Jester' and 'The Holiday' chapters we see the way religion is used as a tool for power in predominantly violent ways, the character of Durochka balances this view by showing the way religion could also be used a power to teach and protect. Alas, it's Durochka who indirectly puts Rublev in breach of his principles though, as he's forced to kill a Tartar in order to prevent her rape.
Like a lot of Andrei Rublev, 'The Raid' ponders the question of whether people are inherently good or inherently evil. It's not something that answered explicitly on screen, but the actions of various characters (especially Rublev) help explore this idea in trials of evil and sin such as the Tartar attack. The medieval setting is the perfect canvas for this ageless question because it sees the majority of people reduced to their baser instincts via opression, ignorance and hardship. It's no coincidence that Tarkovsky lets the camera wander towards animals on more than one occasion either - they too only know their baser instincts; yet do we interpret their actions in terms of good or evil? The depictions of cruelty towards animals throughout the film seems to suggest that they're more sinned-against than sinners. Or perhaps not sinners at all.

The Silence: We revisit the monastery from the film's beginning, and see a very weary and battered Kirill returning to beg for sanctuary and forgiveness. Unlike the prodigal son, his return isn't so much welcomed as barely tolerated. Kirill has been heavily damaged by life outside the Church though, citing the impossibility of living in the secular world without sin as cause for his suffering. By this point of the film Rublev is firmly observing his vow of silence due to his own sin of murder. Both characters demonstrate the corruption of their ideals, with I guess can be seen as a metaphor for art itself... that it can never exist in a vaccuum and must always reflect the outside world in one way or another. Ironically, this chapter also shows Durochka departing Rublev's company to become the wife of a passing Tartar warrior.
The Bell: The final chapter of the film, and a sequence that works as a miniature story independent from the film's narrative (though still reflects its themes) and also shows the catalyst for Rubleg's rebirth as an artist. Boriska (Nikolay Burlyaev), an orphaned adolescent, exagerrates about his ability to make bells in order to gain protection and food from the Grand Prince's troops. This sees him led into a situation where the Prince 'commissions' him to make a giant bell, and he has no choice but to follow through with his claims.
Boriska is gambling because he doesn't actually know the 'secret' of bellmaking, and will be beheaded if he fails. He doesn't really know any better though, and takes more risks than another might - resulting in great art. He breaks down and weeps at his success, the threat of death and the accompanying stress is a big cross to bear for one so young, and it takes its toll on him only once he is finished. It's a significant and moving allegory that shows Andrei Rublev's real purpose - it's not so much a biopic as a recreation of the times in which he lived and hwo this era informed his work. The bell is a symbolic achievement of something in a harsh and unforgiving time where so many dreams go unfulfilled (such as the ballooon-flight, or Rublev's painting of The Last Judgment) due to tyranny and disorder.
Rublev witnesses this feat over adversity and is inspired to finally let go of his vow of silence and start painting again. We don't actually see any of his paintings during the film's narrative but it ends with a montage of over a dozen of his works. After Andrei Rublev gives us an impermeable sense of context we finally see a collection of the artist's paintings in part and in whole, the film's only sequence in colour.
Tarkovsky's style of filming helps reinforce this sense of context, he establishes a grand sphere of action and interaction in chapters like 'The Raid' and 'The Silence' by moving the camera around in a fairly unself-conscious manner, visiting people in turn or following a character (such as Durochka) as they move around in the environment he's created. Another good example is the bell-smelting scene, with Boriska moving around the smithery as men toil. It's not the same kind of tour-de-force that the epic tracking shots in Goodfellas and Atonement are, it's something more natural and humble than that. It's something that helps establish Tarkovsky's vision of the medieval world as a real and viewable place, an indelible glimpse into another (and thankfully far away) time.

* Footnote about the horse getting killed. It's for real. I'm still not really sure how I feel about this. Some artists (like Tarkovsky) might able to move past the treatment of this poor animal in favour of the end result (the images we see on screen), whereas some might be less dedicated to the 'artistic' side of their job and would never imagine killing an animal onscreen in the name of realism. I guess viewers probably fall into these two categories as well, or (like me) are undecided.
For those who haven't seen this film, they torture a horse by pushing it down some stairs and then shoving a spear in it. I found it fairly distressing to watch (mainly because I knew in advance that it was real). Tarkovsky and his crew seemed to think it was excuse enough to use a horse that was already marked for 'destruction' (they also used a gun to put it out of it's misery after the filming of the scene had finished). Now, is the artistic value of such a sequence justification for the mistreatment of an animal? These days it isn't, especially when so much can be achieved by special effects, but Tarkovsky gained a certain level of infamy from that scene and it's part of an overall ethic that makes that film so memorable. Maybe it's something that can never be definitively excused and is entirely in the eye of the beholder. As I said, I'm not sure how I feel about it, I think the fact that the film was made about 45 years ago desensitises me to it. I don't particularly like that, but there you go.
DIRECTOR: Andrei Tarkovsky
WRITER/SOURCE: Screenplay by Andrei Tarkovsky and Andrei Konchalovsky. Based on the life and times of Andrei Rublev.
KEY ACTORS: Anitoli Solonitsyn, Ivan Lapikov, Nikolai Grinko, Nikolai Sergeyev, Irma Rausch, Nikolay Burlyaev, Mikhail Kononov, Yuri Nazarov
RELATED TEXTS:
- The Seventh Seal is an earlier but equally significant film that deals with religious themes in a medieval setting.
- The famed filmmaker Sergei Eisenstein also made some films about the middle ages in Russia, notably; Alexander Nevsky and Ivan the Terrible Part 1 and Part 2.
- A more recent acclaimed film about Russian history is the visually arresting Russian Ark.
- Also see Heart of Glass, a film by Werner Herzog that deals with the finer points of art in an historical setting.
- Andrei Tarkovsky's other most famous films are Solyaris and Stalker.
AWARDS
Cannes Film Festival - won the FIPRESCI Prize.















