Fourteen years after its release, 1’s Island (Остров, 2006), the eighth feature film by the renowned Russian filmmaker Pavel Lunghin, retains its relevance, freshness and power of persuasion, attracting ever-new audiences and consolidating its status as a cult film within the genre of Christian spirituality. And I am not referring to the strict genre of films with moral and religious themes, but to the broad spectrum of masterpieces that radiate beauty, spirituality and humanism in equal measure, and which generally transcend genres.
The ‘Lunghin’ Paradox
At the time of the film’s release, Pavel Lunghin was a screenwriter with considerable experience in Russia and an internationally respected director, a favourite at the Cannes Film Festival (where he was awarded the prize for Best Director for his debut film, Taxi-Blues (1990), and a special prize for ensemble acting for the film The Wedding (2000). Nevertheless, the enthusiasm with which his tenth feature filmfeature film astonished even the director himself, particularly as his previous films—social dramas with thriller elements, inspired by the world of gangsters and devoid of any mystical or intellectual pretensions—gave no indication whatsoever of an appetite for religious themes. They were full of effervescence, sincerity, non-conformism, unrivalled directorial mastery and a great deal of love for actors and people in general, but showed no inclination towards asceticism, meditation or seclusion. Many successful filmmakers have come unstuck with such forays into the realm of the mystical, undertaken for the sake of fashion, curiosity or experimentation. Not Lunghin!
The great paradox is that the bohemian and non-churchgoer (at that time) Lunghin not only did not fail, but actually soared both professionally and in popularity with The Island, gradually becoming, alongside Petr Mamonov, the lead actor, a sort of standard-bearer for the Christian ethos amongst the artistic intelligentsia. The two of them, but especially Petr Mamonov, gave countless interviews and were invited to many gatherings on the themes of the post-Soviet society’s return to the Church, Christian art, and the artist’s relationship with faith.
Few people outside Russia are aware that, since 2010, Pavel Lunghin has been the president of the ‘Zerkalo’ (The Mirror), which takes place annually at the end of May in the city of Ivanovo, not far from Tarkovsky’s birthplace.
The Great Wronged Man of Ostrov
The film, produced by the director together with two collaborators (Sergei Shumakov, Olga Vasilieva) at his own studio (Pavel Lunghin Studio), is based on a screenplay by a debutant, Dmitri Sobolev, a relative unknown at the time and a recent graduate of the Moscow Film Institute (VGIK), who had written the screenplay for Ostrov as his final project for the screenwriting department. It is true that the very young Sobolev had been, at VGIK, a student of Yuri Arabov (an important writer and teacher, a master of the seamless integration of the mystical into everyday life, also known as ‘Sokurov’s screenwriter’) and already possessed a theological grounding at that time, having read extensively in patristic literature, visited monasteries and gained an intimate understanding of monastic life – as he recounts in a 2007 interview in the magazine Rossijaskaja gazeta 2 – so the profound understanding of Orthodox asceticism and mysticism—which is so striking in the film and captivates through its naturalness and organic flow—is owed to the screenwriter Sobolev, who, in terms of popularity, remains the film’s great unsung hero. Even though, in the meantime, Sobolev has managed to win several international awards for his screenplays and has made a number of films, none have ever matched the success of The Island, and the name of this talented and intelligent screenwriter has largely faded from the public’s cinematic memory. Nevertheless, to understand the key to the film’s success, we must not overlook the essential contribution of the screenplay.
The ‘Ostrov’ Phenomenon
From the moment of its release, the film provoked lively and long-lasting reactions, particularly within Christian Orthodox cultural circles, including in Romania, from art-house film enthusiasts and cinephiles, as well as from the general public, and to a lesser extent from distributors, festivals and the specialist press in Romania, who, for reasons that were largely political and ideological, virtually ignored the film. (No one distributes a Russian film in Romania unless it has first won an award at Berlin, Cannes or another major Western festival, but what chance does a film promoting Russian Orthodox identity have of entering the competition at such events?) It was therefore understandable that the film, despite its extraordinary success and commensurate commercial potential, stood no chance of being bought by Romanian distributors. That is why it is difficult to speak of an official rating recorded by distributors, but the film’s enduring presence in independent distribution and its consistent popularity confirm a box-office success that remains unrivalled to this day in the realm of Christian spirituality films.
Indeed, experts note that The Island is the first film of Christian Orthodox spirituality to break through the barrier of elitism (in the vein of Tarkovsky and Zvyagintsev), proving that the genre can be a hit with the public. This was a significant advantage, particularly as the first major voice in Russia after 1990 within the realm of Christian mystical cinema was Andrei Zvyagintsev (The Return, 2003), a first-rate filmmaker, but ‘elitist’, continuing – at that time – the tradition of sacred symbolism pioneered by Tarkovsky and Sokurov. The phenomenal success of Ostrov gave the green light to Russian studios to produce a whole series of films in this genre—accessible to the public yet of high artistic and moral-spiritual calibre—in which religious themes were set against a historical backdrop (The Miracle, The Angel’s Chapel, The Priest, The Monk and the Devil, The Horde) or set in the present day (Spring Is Near, St George’s Day): all of these were made after 2006 and, in a sense, owe their existence to Ostrov.
What is the source of the film’s appeal that has captivated – as journalists claim – over half of Russia’s population? In the universality or universal human nature of the story, based on the moral triad of betrayal, atonement and forgiveness; in the carefully nuanced emotional portrayal; in the charisma of the protagonist, Petr Mamonov (a long-standing collaborator of Lunghin’s, dating back to Taxi-Blues), and of the entire cast, as well as – last but not least – in the magnificence of the audiovisual language, which captivates from the very first moment.
The ethereal, hypnotic and meditative music by Vladimir Martînov, which begins with the gentle lapping of the White Sea that opens the film, immerses us in a state of introspection, characteristic of an examination of conscience, but also of the conviction that God’s gentleness makes its home within us. The austere landscape of the northern island in the Karelia region, where the action takes place (not far from the Solovki archipelago and Monastery, or Solovăț as the Romanians call it), a landscape characterised by the cold, translucent blue of the sea and the gentle contours of the white rocky shore flecked with green moss, is reminiscent of the visual poetics of Zvyagintsev’s The Return, emotionally reinforcing the introspective approach proposed by the soundtrack.
In terms of visual poetics, the relentless cold of the frozen white-and-blue island, counterpointed by the unceasing fire of the coal stove that the main character must tend—a fire which, in the realm of common mysticism, suggests the flames of hell; this ice-and-fire dichotomy accompanies, both emotionally and semantically, the protagonist’s destiny as he undergoes his profound inner transformation.
Only the poetry of light, which masterfully both envelops and reveals, within a single frame, faces and half-glances (the cinematography, by Andrei Jegalov, is one of the film’s greatest strengths), as well as the contrapuntal relationship between image and music – a suite of sounds like the murmur of still water, abruptly interrupted by silences – vividly evoke the mystical core of Tarkovsky’s oeuvre. A forehead laid penitent upon stones and flowers echoes a famous shot of the protagonist’s meditation in Stalker. Andrei Jegalov had previously explored the mysticism of the northern lights in the cult film The Cuckoo / Kukushka, a war and love drama with a pacifist message, rooted in magical realism, which made a name for itself around 2004. The few awards for the cinematography in Ostrov were, unfortunately, awarded to Andrei Jegalov posthumously.
The film’s story
Screenwriter Dmitri Sobolev opted for a narrative style in which meanings are revealed directly; they flow from the actors’ performances, who have a deep understanding of their characters, a performance that brings to life several paradigmatic sequences, without resorting to allegory.
During the Second World War, somewhere on the White Sea, a Soviet coal barge is captured by the Germans. The barge’s stoker is discovered by the Germans and, out of fear, betrays his captain, who is hiding beneath the coal. The fascists intend to shoot them both, but the stoker, overcome by panic, begs for his life; in return for this clemency, the Germans demand that he shoot his comrade. Tihon, shot by the stoker, falls into the sea, and the Germans leave, blowing up the barge. Some monks from an island pull the young stoker’s nearly lifeless body from the sea.
The story continues in 1976, at the small hermitage on the island. The stoker has aged considerably; he is now known as the monk Anatoly (poignantly played by Petr Mamonov) and is responsible for maintaining the hermitage’s small heating plant, in fact, an old coal-fired furnace that requires constant tending. This is also where Anatolie lives, sleeping directly on the coals. It is hard to recognise in him the hysterical soldier of yesteryear. Now he is an austere, solitary old man, with peculiar, clownish mannerisms, through which he protects his solitude from the prying eyes of his fellow monks. He is viewed with suspicion by the community, yet sought out insistently by laypeople. God has graced him with the gift of foresight and healing prayer, but his soul is as restless as the fire he tends in the furnaces. Hence his temptation to isolate himself.
‘Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner!’ – the monotonous words trickle over the northern glades of small flowers and lichens, over the steely glints of the water, pierced by a slender ray of sunlight, in narrow, plunging or wide, contemplative frames, amidst the footsteps of the scattered monks going about their business, whose faces we see only later. The camera, too, follows the internalised discipline of the ascetic life. The prayer of one heart intertwines with a second and a third, each in its own solitude, yet rising together towards the same fullness of grace. It is the auditory and visual leitmotif, the marker that, as in the Paterikon, signifies the day’s cycles of work and rest. Communion, secretly wrought in solitude.
In his solitude, the monk Anatolie prays for the heavenly peace of the one he believes he has killed; he speaks to him in his mind, asks for forgiveness, but cannot forgive himself. The awareness of the crime committed out of cowardice causes him to condemn himself to silence and isolation, experienced as a purifying stage of existence. Anatolie stubbornly refuses the friendship of the other monks, whom he teases with veiled remarks known only to himself… a burnt stick, thrown from above in front of a brother, foreshadows the fire at the monastery that broke out a day later, about which, however, Father Anatolie fails to warn them. He smears pitch on the handle of his cell door to discourage the brothers from crossing the threshold.
Father Iov (alias Dmitri Diujev), a monk with an intellectual and city-dweller’s air, is annoyed by his supposed pretensions to being a mystical madman; he spies on him and reports all his eccentricities and deviations from the canon to Abbot Filaret. One day, Father Anatoly asks Father Job if he still remembers ‘why Cain killed Abel’. Proud as he is, he feels defied by this elementary question, without realising that it contains the very diagnosis of his spiritual illness: envy. For the dapper Iov, who tries to be a righteous monk but feels he lacks grace, envies the witty Anatolie for his fame amongst the laity. It is only at the very end that Father Iov acknowledges this sin.
A few blunt pieces of advice, a few seemingly clairvoyant insights (expressed in ambiguous wordplay), a few moments of unsought tenderness shown towards the suffering laypeople who have come seeking Father Anatolie, all these moments of intense drama are interrupted by the return, again and again, to his fervent prayer of repentance, which runs like a leitmotif through the film.
Most of those seeking out Father Anatolie are women. A desperate young woman, portrayed with restraint and emotion by the delicate Ianna Isipovici, who wishes to have an abortion, has come to ask for a blessing… for an abortion, is soundly rebuked, encouraged and sent home with a blessing to give birth to the child, who – Father Anatolie promises – will restore her life.
A simple woman, whose husband has long since gone missing in the war – a man she loved dearly and whom she still mourns – asks how she should commemorate her husband: among the living or the dead? For delicate and difficult situations, which pertain to divine revelation, Father Anatolie resorts to a ruse, coupled with an innocent pretence: he pretends that he is not the ‘great Anatolie’ himself, but his intermediary, in order to avoid vain glory. Thus, from an adjoining room, he performs a two-part dialogue between the ‘real Anatolie’ (to whom the laity have no access) and ‘his disciple’ (in fact, the same person), in order to tell the woman that she is not a widow and that she must leave urgently for France to say goodbye to her husband, who has been living there for a long time and is about to die. This almost implausible situation gains credibility thanks to the actors’ conviction and the details that give it substance. Nina Usatova – a leading figure on the Russian and Soviet stage – is unforgettable in this cameo role, which is sober, emotional and as rich as a life story. ‘How can I go to France now?’ asks the woman, who has probably never left Russia. ‘Sell your farm and your livestock and hurry to catch him whilst he’s still alive, if you love him as much as you say you do!’ replies Father Anatoly, firmly and convincingly.
The supporting actors, who treat their brief parts with the seriousness of leading roles, ensure the film’s dramatic intensity.
The same is true of the episode featuring the third visit by a layperson – this time a mother (played by Olga Demidova) with a lame child, who has come to ask for her child’s healing. We see Anatolie sweating as he prays for the child who cannot walk, and then, with a hope born of boundless mercy, but above all from on high, he tells him: ‘Get up!’. The boy stands up without his crutches and takes two unsteady steps: there is nothing mechanical about this miracle, still in the making, which you see taking shape in proportion to the faith and persistence of the supplicant, but also to the hope of the poor who ask for help. ‘You won’t need your crutches any more! But for that to happen, you must stay the night, so that you may receive Holy Communion tomorrow.” The request is unexpectedly challenged by the child’s mother, who stubbornly refuses to let him stay, finally arguing that she cannot miss the next day’s meeting at work. Appalled by the woman’s selfishness – she loves her job more than her child – Father Anatolie rebukes her vehemently and almost snatches the boy away; only then does the woman realise her mistake and burst into tears…
All these psychodramas – we might call them that given the authenticity of the performance – gradually build in intensity and move us all deeply, culminating in the climax of the episode depicting the priest’s fourth visit to Mirena and his ‘miracles’—the very event that will free him from the torments of this world. It is the great deliverance he had been awaiting, though he had probably never dared to admit it. It seems the angel brings him the news, for Anatoly, unlike ever before, is waiting at the small jetty for the boat carrying the new arrivals. This time they are guests of high standing: Admiral Tikhon, a sturdy man, roughly the same age as the priest, with his adult daughter, Nastia, a sophisticated woman suffering from nervous exhaustion. A most unusual bird-like dialogue ensues between ‘the fool for Christ’ Anatolie and the thoroughly mad Nastia. The former crows ‘cock-a-doodle-doo’ amongst the frozen hills, whilst Nastia responds in kind with bird-like incantations, as if answering the deepest call of her heart; the duet evokes, through gestures and glances, but also through its innocence, the courtship rituals of birds. For Nastia senses in Anatolie her healer, whilst the priest also feels that, through the mad Nastia, he too will find his salvation. The two embrace happily under the stunned gaze of the sceptical admiral, and Anatolie takes Nastia in his arms, almost like a groom with his bride. ‘My daughter is mad!’ – apologises Tikhon. ‘No, she isn’t mad,’ explains the priest. ‘She’s possessed.’ ‘How do you know?’ ‘I know him personally!’ replies the priest cryptically. Nastia’s mental instability becomes apparent, and her face, initially radiant with happiness, takes on a look of unease and even terror. The priest has long since left her side; he has knelt amongst the ice and is praying fervently: “May God arise and scatter His enemies!…”. Nastia rolls about amongst other frozen hills, seized by spasms; she weeps and wails. None of the vulgarity found in Hollywood films about exorcisms is present in this dramatic spectacle, which unfolds entirely within the realm of compassion and humanity (albeit distorted), rather than that of horror. When Nastia faints, the priest hands her over to her father. The young woman, who had lost her mind after being abandoned by her husband, is now healed. The admiral hurries to leave, but the priest detains him and invites him to a brief private conversation, during which, to the admiral’s bewilderment, he confides the great tragedy of his life: the betrayal and murder of a comrade-in-arms during the war. Only then does the old admiral understand the reason for being held back; he looks away, embarrassed, and smiles with bittersweet emotion: ‘Yes, I know that man; he didn’t die. He was only wounded in the arm, but the blast threw him into the sea and he managed to save himself. Don’t worry, I’ve forgiven you; I forgave you right then and there’… With barely perceptible facial expressions and minimal dialogue, the talented actor Yuri Kuznetsov (known internationally for his role in Alexei German’s film My Friend Ivan Lapshin, and in Russia also thanks to the popular TV series in which he has starred) brings to life a complex character, one of great dramatic intensity.
The dice of fate, once thrown haphazardly into the arena of life, have fallen back into place. Tikhon departs, and Father Anatoly is happy that he can, at last, die!
The scene of Anatoly’s death, with the ritual of laying him to rest the day before in a makeshift coffin fashioned from a chest – much to Job’s annoyance – and Job’s plea to summon the brothers to ring the bell at a set time, this scene concludes the film’s first dramatic-narrative arc—that of the priest’s relationship with the laity—and intersects it with the second arc, namely his relationship with the monastic community. Whilst the first dramatic arc is, generally speaking, non-conflictual and builds gradually towards its climax, the arc concerning his relationship with the monastic community is conflictual and winding.
Father Anatolie is resented for his qualities by Brother Job, who interprets his mannerisms as expressions of pride, and adored by the abbot of the hermitage, Father Filaret, who sees him as a true saint. None of the brothers are aware of the sin that gives him no peace. The abbot tries to draw closer to Anatolie, but the stoker rejects him. Following the fire that gutted part of the monastery, the abbot moves into the stoker’s cell, whereupon the latter initiates a new psychodrama, filling the cell with smoke, setting fire to the priest’s precious boots—a gift from a bishop—and throwing the warm duvet brought from Greece into the sea. Cured of his passion for petty comforts and made aware of the weakness of his fear of death, the abbot thanks the priest, in accordance with a code of conduct in which a lukewarm spirit has no place, and which only folly for Christ’s sake can comprehend.
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A linguistic observation: I have sometimes seen the film’s title translated into Romanian as ‘Ostrov’, using the indefinite form of the noun. This is incorrect. Even though the original title of the film is ‘Остров’ (which means ‘island’), in Russian nouns are not articulated, so the translation depends on the context of the target language. And since in Romanian, titles – if they are nouns – are generally articulated (the lack of an article introducing a distinct semantic emphasis), the standard translation is in the articulated form: Ostrovul.
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‘The Island’ of Luck. Dmitry Sobolev, screenwriter of the film ‘The Island’, on the possibility of success in our time. Text: Elena Yakovleva / Rossiyskaya Gazeta, 28 February 2007 (‘The Island’ of Success. Dmitry Sobolev, screenwriter of the film Ostrov, on the possibility of success in our times”, interview by Elena Yakovleva), https://rg.ru/2007/02/28/sobolev.html