Russian film Leviathan shows complex personae

Amid the serene stillness of the Russian countryside, the gentle skate of whales and the stoic presence of white cliffs lies the tumultuous narrative of Leviathan, a Russian film co-written and directed by Andrey Zvyagintsev. Although advertised as a commentary on the will of the common man against a corrupt government, the film soon evolves into a more intricate story focused on the complexity of human relationships, particularly when placed under stress.

The context for this tale is introduced through an expansive, sun-drenched camera shot of the main character, Kolya (Alexei Serebriakov), and his old friend, Dmitriy (Vladimir Vdovichenkov), locked in a familiar embrace at a local train station. Dmitriy, a successful lawyer living in Moscow, has journeyed to the small port town of Pribrezhny to assist Kolya in his struggle to defend his property against the mayor (Roman Madyanov), who wants build on the waterfront property.

However, rather than helping his friend to save the ancestral home, Dmitriy instead creates a storm of mistrust and anguish when he has an affair with Kolya’s wife, Lilya (Elena Lyadova).

This multifaceted, emotionally complex narrative could have easily become outlandish or even absurd if not for the strong acting by each cast member. As Kolya, Serebriakov first embodies a stern, solid man whose sole objective is to maintain possession of his home. However, as the story continues, the actor manages to convey the cracks in this solid exterior until Kolya is entirely vulnerable and shown weeping in an office chair.

Also perfectly cast are Vdocichenkov and Lyadova as Dmitriy and Lilya, characters who struggle with the morality of their actions and their loyalties to Kolya. In addition, it’s difficult to imagine another actor playing the vindictive, darkly comical Mayor Vadim Shelevyat despite the character’s over-the-top nature.

Also impressive is actor Sergey Pokhodaev, who portrays Kolya’s young teenage son Roman, a character deeply troubled by his disdain for his stepmother Lilya as well as the continuous issues that his father faces. In each scene he’s in, Pokhodaev manages to match the intense, nuanced emotions of his adult counterparts and create a convincing story of a boy who seeks refuge from the burdens that plague him and his family.

From the first frame of Kolya and Dmitriy, it’s clear that the film’s strongest technical elements lie in the stunning cinematography and production design by Mikhail Krichman and Andrey Ponkratov who have each collaborated with Zvyadintsev on past films. In both cases the creation of symmetry is what makes the film unique and truly magnificent to behold on screen.

A prime example of this symmetry is a shot in which the camera — and the audience — sits in the backseat of a car parked behind another car, witnessing a brutal beating on the passenger’s side and a pleased Vadim on the driver’s side.

The use of diegetic sound throughout was also noteworthy. Although a musical score does occasionally interject itself, the immersive film focuses on sounds like the rushing of waves against the jagged shore or the sharp slapping of fish against the plastic of an industrial assembly line help to maintain realism.

The title of the film, a biblical reference to a great sea monster, arises throughout in a variety of manners, the most obvious one being when the local priest attempts to comfort Kolya by describing the lack of human control over earthly events, the power of a great “leviathan” over feeble humans. As religion, namely Russian Orthodoxy, plays a major role both visually and thematically, this discrepancy between free will and the role of a higher power is alluded to often throughout the film.

Another suggestion of a “leviathan” comes in the form of the whale skeleton on the beach. Its presence, perhaps a reminder of the inevitability of death and loss, remains open to interpretation. The audience also cannot help but note that the crane that tears into the side of Kolya’s home moves in the same smooth, animated manner as the whale that Lilya sees as she peers out over the cliffs.

Though it explores broad themes of human nature, Leviathan does take time to create a certain amount of commentary on Russian political and social life. This is exemplified in the use of portraits of former Russian leaders as shooting targets as well as the obviously excessive consumption of vodka by nearly every main character.

While the more specific commentary on Russian society might be looked by an American audience, there is no difficulty in translating the raw human emotion portrayed on screen. Without being overly sentimental or melodramatic, the film whittles away at the audience’s consciousness until we are entirely engrossed in the lives of its characters. In its desire to portray a realistic, unembellished peak into the characters’ most private moments, the film generates a general feeling of uneasiness.

Though the film, with its often distressing degree of intimacy, is not one for a casual, relaxed evening of movie viewing, it is certainly worthy of an interested audience as well as the multitude of accolades it has received.