Tuesday 21 October 2014

What Have the Russians Ever Done for Us?

Igor Stravinsky

Name some great composers of the twentieth century. Chances are a few of them will be Russian: Prokofiev, Rachmaninov, Stravinsky, Shostakovich. For me, the last two are particular favourites.

Dmitry Shostakovich
Igor Stravinsky was twenty-four years older than Dmitry Shostakovich, but perhaps a bigger difference between them was that Stravinsky never lived in the Soviet Union, while Shostakovich spent his entire adult life there. By the time of the Revolution, Stravinsky was already famous and travelling the world. The two composers did not meet until 1962, when the totalitarianism of Stalin had begun to thaw under Khrushchev and the eighty-year-old Stravinsky at last felt it was safe to visit his homeland. A banquet was arranged at the Metropole Hotel in Moscow in honour of Stravinsky, with Shostakovich in attendance. Aram Khachaturian, another great Russian – well, Georgian – composer, witnessed their meeting:

They were placed next to each other and sat in complete silence. I sat opposite them. Finally Shostakovich plucked up the courage and opened the conversation:

‘What do you think of Puccini?’

‘I can’t stand him,’ Stravinsky replied.

‘Oh, and neither can I, neither can I,’ said Shostakovich.1

I find it hard to disagree with them. However entertaining Puccini’s music is, it is only the climax of a West-European and specifically Italian style that had developed over the previous century. The Russian’s were doing something quite new.

Alexander PushkinAnd it wasn’t just in music. Name some great novelists – of any century. You’ll probably start off with quite a list of English or English-speaking writers, but after that it won’t be long before you get to Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky, and not much longer to Bulgakov, Pasternak, Gogol and Nabokov (whom you might already have listed, since he wrote novels in both English and Russian). If you allow the constraints to expand a little you might also include Chekov as a playwright and Pushkin as a poet. And that’s just to list the household names (my household, anyway).

This blossoming of literary talent occurred over the shortest of periods. To go from Pushkin to Tolstoy is almost to go from Chaucer to Shakespeare. From one of the first to use his native language (as opposed, in both cases, to French) to the archetype of writing in that language. It was a transition that took Britain over two centuries, but took Russia scarcely three decades. And Britain has rarely been in the same league as Russia with regards to composers. As for artists, perhaps Britain does better overall, but just as our music has no Stravinsky, our art has no Kandinsky.

First Abstract Watercolour - Vasily Kandinsky, 1910

Like Shostakovich, Vasiliy Vasilievich Kandinsky was in Russia at the time of the Revolution, but was able to leave in 1921. He settled in Germany – until the Nazis closed the Bauhaus, where he taught. He moved to France, soon to find himself once again under Nazi rule when they invaded. He died just four months after Paris was liberated. Long before that, in 1910, he produced a painting which he appropriately titled First Abstract Watercolour. It was just that – the first truly abstract painting. Kandinsky went on to produce many others, and founded an entire art movement.

Kandinsky equated painting with music and tried to imitate music’s inherently abstract nature. He called many of his works compositions and experienced art and music synaesthetically. Early in his career he wrote:

Colour is the keyboard, the eyes are the hammers, the soul is the piano with many strings. The artist is the hand that plays, touching one key or another, to cause vibrations in the soul. 2

Composition VII - Vasily Kandinsky, 1913

Stravinsky and Kandinsky knew each other in Paris in the 1930s, though unlike the artist, the composer left France for America before the German occupation. It was long after the Russian Revolution, and longer still after each man’s personal revolution in his own field of art. The 1910s were a decade that changed the world in many ways. Politically the impact of the First World War and the Russian Revolution cannot be underestimated, and we shouldn’t forget the Xinhai Revolution in China or the Easter Rising in Ireland. The sinking of RMS Titanic is still remembered today and marks the apogee, and therefore the endpoint, of mankind’s blind faith in technology. Kandinsky produced the first abstract painting in 1910, but it was in 1913 that Stravinsky’s revolution became violent.

Le Sacre du Printemps (The Rite of Spring) was first performed at the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées on 29th May 1913. The fact that it caused the audience to riot is well-known, and not entirely overstated. But the production itself was revolutionary, both in terms of its music and its choreography. The première has been described as ‘the most important single moment in the history of twentieth century music’3. The whole of the production team was made up of Russian émigrés: Stravinsky, the composer; Vaslav Nijinsky, the choreographer; Nikolai Rerikh, the set designer; Sergei Diaigilev, the producer. None of them died in the country of his birth. It was in the Russian Empire that their talents first went unrecognized, but in the Soviet Union that they knew they would not be free to express themselves as artists.

Dancers from the première of The Rite of Spring

But art did flourish in the Soviet Union, even under Stalin, though the lifestyle of those who produced it was precarious. The Soviet leader regarded himself as an expert on every aspect of Russian life – military, economic and cultural. In each field he was arbitrary. In 1929 Mihail Bulgakov found himself unable to make a living when the Soviet government banned the publication of his novels and the production of his plays. But at the same time Stalin intervened personally to protect Bulgakov from arrest. And yet when Bulgakov wrote to Stalin, asking for permission to leave the Soviet Union on the grounds that he was not able to practise his profession, the dictator refused. He died in 1940, but it was more than two decades before many of his major works were published. When they were it became clear why they had been regarded as so dangerous – although he was not always critical of the regime.

Joseph Stalin
Music did not convey so obvious a message. As Kandinsky had observed, music is by its nature more abstract than literature – harder to identify with a political opinion. Dmitry Shostakovich’s work was at first found to be favourable by the authorities. His opera, Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk, was initially described as a work that ‘could have been written only by a Soviet composer brought up in the best tradition of Soviet culture.’4 But that was before Stalin had seen the opera. Soon after he did, articles criticizing it began to appear in Pravda, and Shostakovich’s earlier works began to be critically reappraised. The same year, 1936, Shostakovich completed his Fourth Symphony. As with Bulgakov’s works, the symphony wasn’t performed until decades later, in 1961 – but at least the composer was alive to witness it. He was luckier than many around him; this was the era of the Great Purge, when many were arrested and executed, including his brother-in-law.

But Shostakovich was no fool. He changed his compositional style and his Fifth Symphony was a huge success. An official review praised him for ‘not having given in to the seductive temptations of his previous erroneous ways.’5 During World War II he wrote his Seventh Symphony – titled Leningrad. One of its first performances was in the city after which it was named, at the time under siege by the Nazis, the scores smuggled in to be performed by the city’s starving orchestra. It is still regarded as a memorial to the 25 million Soviet citizens who died in the war.

St Isaac's Cathedral, Leningrad, during the siege

But despite his success, Shostakovich was once again denounced in 1948, along with Prokofiev and Khachaturian. With Stalin’s death he gradually came back into favour. In 1960 he joined the Communist Party, but only so that he could become General Secretary of the Composers' Union.

It would be a preposterous exaggeration to claim that all of Russian culture can be compressed into a period of less than two centuries, but from the viewpoint of the West, it can seem like it. From – to choose a couple of arbitrary points – the birth of Aleksandr Pushkin in 1799 to the death of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn in 2008 one could pick almost any decade and find a great work of art produced by some Russian or other. Most of it was produced by individuals whose lives were oppressed by a totalitarian regime, or who had fled such a regime for the freedom of the West. Russia now is in a strange place politically – more liberal than it has ever been, and yet still authoritarian by the standards of the rest of Europe. In the past it has been the birthplace of revolutions in every field of culture which have swept the world. It’s difficult to see much hope for the prospect of another, but Russia – that riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma – can always surprise.

1. E.Wilson, Shostakovich: A Life Remembered
2. Hajo Düchting, Wassily Kandinsky, 1866-1944: A Revolution in Painting
3. Thomas Forrest Kelly, First Nights – Five Musical Premiers
4. Dmitry Shostakovich (compiled by L. Grigoryev and Y. Platek), Shostakovich: About Himself and His Times
5. E.Wilson, Shostakovich: A Life Remembered

Sunday 12 October 2014

Tell Me More, Tell Me More

With the publication of The Last Rite – the final instalment of The Danilov Quintet – imminent, it’s time for me to make a confession: I didn’t make it all up. Admittedly the stuff about vampires and a curse on the blood of the Romanov emperors was all my idea, but as for the rest of it I pride myself on my attention to historical accuracy. It’s always pleasing to read reviews that say how well-researched the books are, and I’m often asked for recommendations of books which go into the history behind the quintet in more detail.

So I’ve gone back through my library and picked out a couple of history books for each period covered – those that I particularly remember from the many others that I trawled through to uncover the minutiae of Imperial Russian life.

Twelve – 1812

I first read Adam Zamoyski’s 1812 – Napoleon’s Fatal March on Moscow before the idea of writing Twelve ever occurred to me. It clearly left something of an impression, and the freezing winter nights of the French retreat came back to me as the ideal location for a vampire tale. I have his biography of Chopin lined up to read soon.

Once I’d plotted Twelve, I realized that if I was going to make it authentic I’d need an in-depth account of Napoleon’s occupation of the old Russian capital. I had to go back to 1964 to find something good enough: The Burning of Moscow 1812 by Daria Olivier. There’s a fascinating amount of detail in a book that covers just five vital days of European history.

Thirteen Years Later – 1825

In historical terms, Thirteen Years Later covers two closely related events: the death of Tsar Alexander I and the Decembrist Revolt – an uprising of army officers against his successor Nicholas I.

One of the joys of writing historical fiction is the freedom to choose which path to follow when historians themselves are unsure of the truth. Often my choice is the less likely – and therefore more fascinating – path. Since 1825 there has been a persistent rumour – even within the Romanov family – that Alexander did not die then, but faked his own death in order to be free of the burden of ruling Russia. The threads of the story are brought together wonderfully in Alexis S. Troubetzkoy’s Imperial Legend, although unlike me, Troubetzkoy does not suggest that the tsar’s disappearance was down to the fact that the blood of the vampire Dracula flowed in his veins.

The fame of the revolutions of 1917 has somewhat obscured the uprising of 1825, leaving it hard to find thorough histories of the subject. This time a detailed study came from 1937 with Anatole G. Mazour’s The First Russian Revolution, 1825. It’s fascinating to wonder just how different the world might have been if the uprising had succeeded.

The Third Section – 1854-1856

Although I read plenty on the Crimean War for research, it was other aspects of the period that caught my attention. The title of the novel comes from The Third Section (sometimes translated as Department) of His Imperial Majesty’s Own Chancellery, a rather long-winded name for Tsar Nicholas I’s secret police. The Third Department by P. S. Squire, written in 1968 provides a good understanding of the organization. It’s easy to see a thread that stretches on to the Ohrana, the Cheka, the NKVD and the KGB (and perhaps beyond).

I fear that my fascination for the next selection may not be shared by all, but the development of the railways, and particularly the building of the St Petersburg to Moscow railway, was essential to the modernization of Russia. Richard Mowbray Haywood’s Russia Enters the Railway Age, 1842-55 has detail invaluable for anyone writing about the period, and the storytelling still delivers a highly readable text.

The People’s Will – 1881

Another decade, another tsar and another failed revolution. The People’s Will was a terrorist organization that murdered Tsar Alexander II – although the ensuing revolution they had hoped for never came to pass.

I couldn’t find one single all-encompassing text on the events and had to piece things together from several sources. In Alexander II – The Last Great Tsar Edvard Radzinsky gives a highly readable account of the life and death of Russia’s most (perhaps only) liberal tsar, though betrays a little more partially than most historical biographers do.

Historical fiction relies on detail and this is often found not in the broad, sweeping brush of a generalist, but in the biography of the one of the bit players. Lee B. Croft’s print-to-order Nikolai Ivanovich Kibalchich – Terrorist Rocket Pioneer gives an account of the life of one of the leading members of The People’s Will – the man who designed the bombs that killed the tsar and also a prototype rocket intended to take travellers to the moon.

The Last Rite – 1917-1918

Not since I wrote Twelve had I researched a period that was so well covered in the history section of bookshops. In all of twentieth century history only the World Wars have been as well documented as the Russian Revolution, so my selections here are the best of many. The first is very well known, and its reputation is not overstated: A People’s Tragedy: The Russian Revolution 1891-1924 by Orlando Figes. It is both wide-ranging and detailed and takes full advantage of the benefits of hindsight.

Quite the reverse can be said of Ten Days That Shook the World, a first-hand account by American journalist John Reed of his experiences of the Bolshevik coup. Such a personal account, from a man who does not attempt to hide his admiration for Lenin and his comrades, must be treated carefully as a contribution to the historical record, but is unrivalled in its evocation of what it was like to be on the streets of Petrograd at that time.

One Book to Rule Them All, One Book to Find Them

There’s one last book I’d like to mention, one which attempts to cover the whole of Russian history, often eschewing the lives and deaths of the tsars and the battles they won. Again it is by Orlando Figes: Natasha’s Dance – A Cultural History of Russia. Aside from fictional sources such as Tolstoy’s War and Peace (from which Figes’ book takes its name), I found nothing that gives a better feeling for what Russia was actually like in the century leading up to the Revolution.

Saturday 22 March 2014

The Wicker Man – The Final Cut

The Wicker Man - The Final Cut
Like Psycho and The Planet of the Apes, The Wicker Man is a film for which I cannot remember not knowing the twist.

In the case of those two it’s conceivable that there really never was such a time; the films are so well entrenched in popular culture that I may have known what happens at the end even before I saw them. I doubt the same is true of The Wicker Man. I’d never even heard of it before I first saw it. I must simply have forgotten the experience of discovering for the first time the climax of Sergeant Howie’s visit to Summerisle. That’s a shame, because it’s quite a surprise … and for the benefit of the handful of people who’ve not seen the film I won’t reveal it here.

I first saw The Wicker Man late at night on the BBC sometime in the late 70s or early 80s. This version would have been the theatrical release. By all accounts it was a rushed edit done by a production company that had little confidence in the success of the movie. That said it’s still an extraordinary film and is the version that has primarily given The Wicker Man its reputation and following.
Robin Hardy
In 2002 The Director’s Cut was released; director Robin Hardy made use of unused footage to produce something closer to his original vision. It’s a full fifteen minutes longer. I think I’ve only ever watched this DVD once for the tangential reason that it has no subtitles. My girlfriend is deaf and so our frequent viewings (and believe me, we watch it a lot) have been confined to a DVD of the theatrical release that came free with The Guardian one weekend – but which did have subtitles.

Last year marked the 40th anniversary of the film and saw the release of a new DVD containing three versions of the movie - the theatrical release, the director’s cut and a new ‘final’ cut – along with some documentaries, a CD of Paul Giovanni’s amazing music and even a flyer urging us to get the sheet music for the soundtrack (duly acquired). And it has subtitles.

Recently we watched all three versions back-to-back, and so I thought I’d share my thoughts on the differences.
The Wicker Tree
The director’s cut is the longest at 99 minutes. While one might have an instinct to regard any director’s cut as definitive that’s certainly not the same as saying it’s the best. On the one hand Robin Hardy is clearly a great director because he directed The Wicker Man . On the other hand he wrote and directed The Wicker Tree, which I found to be actually worse than the US remake of The Wicker Man starring Nicholas Cage – harsh words I know, but I stand by them.

One gets the impression that the director’s cut has tried to use every inch of footage that could be found. In many cases just a few seconds are added to the beginning or end of a scene. I’d have to question whether there really was any benefit in putting these back in, but equally I can see no reason for taking them out in the first place. In terms of the director’s cut as a film in its own right, however, there is the problem that the quality of the inserted clips is much lower than that of the theatrical release, so they do rather stand out. In a sense that’s an advantage in that it makes it easier to spot the differences. The final cut doesn’t obsess quite so much on restoring every last second and also has better quality restoration, so the extra material is less obvious – but not invisible.

The two major differences between the various versions come in the film’s opening and in the events of the two nights that Howie stays at the Green Man Inn.

The theatrical release opens with the titles showing over Sergeant Howie’s flight from the mainland to Summerisle, accompanied by Paul Giovanni’s eerie adaptation of The Highland Widow’s Lament, seguing into Corn Rigs . The director’s cut begins with quite a long section on the mainland revealing Howie’s religiosity and virginity and presenting the story of the arrival of the letter summoning him to Summerisle. The final cut has a very short sequence showing Howie in church, before going into the titles. One gets the feeling that both the later cuts are somewhat restricted by the fact that the only print available has the titles over the flight to Summerisle and that the option of completely putting them elsewhere is not available.

With regards to the opening I have to say that the theatrical release wins hands down. This is a film about a clash of cultures and therefore it should begin with the point at which those cultures meet. We know as little about Howie (aside for our preconceptions based on his uniform) as we do about the islanders. Placing all the action on Summerisle conforms to the idea of Aristotelian unity of place.  Almost all of what is covered in the director’s cut (which reminded me of a dull episode of Z-Cars) is dealt with in seconds by Howie saying he is looking for Rowan Morrison and showing the islanders the letter and the photograph. His religious life is dealt with neatly in flashback.


The final cut appreciates that most of the setup is unnecessary, but still puts in a very brief sequence of Howie in church on the mainland before going into the standard titles. It’s a compromise and an unnecessary one. The theatrical release gets it right: it hits us straight away with the visual spectacle of the view from the seaplane, the sound of the traditional folksong and the concept of a policeman going somewhere to do something. Anything before that is mere distraction.

The nights at the Green Man change quite substantially. In the theatrical release Willow tempts Howie on his first night at the inn and nothing much happens on the second night. In the other two versions the temptation occurs on the second night. The first night covers probably the biggest cut from the theatrical release. Lord Summerisle stands outside the inn and presents a young man to Willow to achieve his manhood with her. While they are together Lord Summerisle outside recites a speech beginning ‘I think I could turn and live with animals’, based on a poem by Walt Whitman, and there are strange, symbolic shots of a snail on a leaf.
Clearly this is an important scene, both in establishing the sexual permissiveness of the island in general and of Willow in particular, and of showing Lord Summerisle as completely integrated with that aspect of the island’s life. However, I think its inclusion is a mistake.

In the theatrical release Howie (and the audience) first meets Lord Summerisle after this first night. Summerisle seems modern, affable and tolerant. In contrast with Howie he appears to be by far the more reasonable man. This doesn’t work if we the audience already know just how weird he really is. As the film progresses Summerisle still stands out as a beacon of sanity – as someone who indulges the island’s religion to just the extent that on the mainland he might indulge Christianity without having any real conviction for it. It’s only at the end, after Howie appeals to him, that we discover that he genuinely believes.

A compromise might have been to swap the events of the two nights, so that we still get to initially see Lord Summerisle as a reasonable man. I can’t say whether that was considered, but I doubt whether it would have been achievable with the available footage. Even so, it would spoil the track of our appreciation of Summerisle’s character as the film progresses.

One minor scene is interesting. Only in the director’s cut does Howie seek out the island’s doctor and ask about the death of Rowan Morrison. It is the doctor who refers him to the Public Records Office. It’s a very short scene, but it makes sense in that the doctor is the person a police sergeant would ask. I’m surprised it wasn’t included in the final cut.
Christopher Lee
There’s one area in which I’ve always expected to see more footage and never have in any version. On the morning of Mayday Howie conducts a house-to-house search for Rowan. This has always seemed a little rushed to me and looks as though it’s been cut down from a longer (quite conceivably too long) sequence. To site a particular event, there is a point where Howie goes into a bedroom, pulls back a curtain and reveals a stone spiral staircase leading down. It seems obvious he will go down there to continue his search, but in the theatrical release he does not. It’s always bothered me and so when I first saw the director’s cut I expected to see what was down there, but the scene is just the same, as it is in the final cut. I can only presume that footage of him going down the steps is unavailable, but I’d have to question why none of the versions have thought to cut the spiral staircase completely and not leave this issue hanging.

That said I do think the search sequence (with only very slight differences across the versions) works and needs to be as pacey as it is – it just does have the feeling that it was cut down from something less slick rather than having originally been written and directed in its current form.

In the end the only significant differences across the three edits are the pre-title sequence and Lord Summerisle’s speech outside the Green Man. The story is that British Lion was not keen to release the film at all and did the edit for the theatrical release simply to have something that they could distribute. That may be true, but it doesn’t necessarily mean they made a bad job of it.

The opening of the film seems to me unquestionably best in the theatrical release. The scene on the first night is more debatable, but overall I think the story flows better without it.

I’ve watched The Wicker Man many times and I will again in future. And for variety I will probably watch all the versions. But the one I’ll watch most – the one I’d recommend – is the theatrical release.