Last month, a bizarre event took place in Vienna, Austria. Every Tuesday, the Austrian Film Museum dedicates an evening screening to the history of cinema, in which they show some truly unique pieces. On this particular occasion, it was Aerograd by Aleksandr Dovzhenko. 

Political interference in cinema is unavoidable nowadays; yet, despite Wim Wenders’ opinion, no harm is done to art because of it and so it was 100 years ago in the Soviet Union. The main idea of the film is clear even from the title: a socialist future in the wild East, in a city fully supported by the airplanes of the future. However, after the screening, a doubt emerged among the viewers. If Dovzhenko wanted to say something propagandistic, he was either unsuccessful or he made such a great film that it can only be fully understood after 100 years. Since the concept of “rereading” exists, both could be true. An art piece belongs to us, the viewers, and not to a 100-year-old film director: it is we who determine its meaning — so, let’s decide. 

The Japanese question

The first point of interest is the explicit criticism of Japan. We do not often see films like this nowadays, so we have to analyze it not as mere racism, but as political criticism. The film presents Japan as a threat that tries to hinder the development of the Soviet Union in the East. This is exemplified in a chase sequence where the protagonist—or one of the two— tracks down traitors, including two Japanese samurais.  

Overall, the film tends to consider Japanese expansion as “bad” and Soviet expansion as “good.” This is a controversial stance, but, given the historical background, wasn’t Japan obviously much worse? At the end of the film, Dovzhenko inserts a scene where a samurai’s suicide attempt is stopped, discouraged, and laughed at. Furthermore, the image of the samurai is presented as outdated, a relic of feudal tradition. Especially rereading the 1930s, one might argue about the scale of crimes and atrocities committed by the two militarist governments; but does the criticism of one necessarily imply the endorsement of the other? 

We tend toward oversimplification nowadays: there is a tendency to consider any German film from 1932 onwards as disgraceful, or to do the same with all Soviet films of the 1930s. This is the so-called division between good and bad, dark and light. Anyway, not all Soviet films must be anti-Soviet to be considered great art. Moreover, a film that is not anti-Soviet is not merely apolitical. Political film can exist even under heavy censorship, and Aerograd is an example. 

Ambiguous protagonist

The second main point of attention is the second main character of the film: the traitor, the Old Believer, and the anti-communist. The interpretation of this character is a perfect example of a possible rereading of political art from a different, distant era of humankind. Vasil is anything but a conformist. He is terrified by the imminent expansion of the Communist state into his home. His most sacred beliefs are exemplified in a late-night scene when he comes home and opens up to his family. Suggesting that the Communists will take their nature, wilderness, and essence, he proposes—even if not explicitly—to kill his children to save them from the coming future.  

This scene and the overall ambiguity of the character never destroy or fully explain his fears as a suppressed individual, even though he aligns with the Japanese, the Whites, and the anti-communists. Dovzhenko seems to treat Vasil as an equal character to the main Communist defender. As is common in Soviet cinema, to speak of “a character” is a very ambiguous and imprecise way to describe a figure on screen. They tend to represent a community, like the Communist Civil War veterans. Even if there is only one Japanese character left, he seems to represent feudalism in general rather than a psychological individual. Vasil is different. He is the only one with whom you sympathize, empathize, or see a reflection. This might be due to our modern sensibility and our experience with different kinds of cinematic characters. He is a possible key to a door that has been left closed for 100 years.  

Dovzhenko does not stop at the character himself. The director constantly introduces nature shots before or in the middle of scenes. The film starts with panoramic shots of the unending forests of the wild East. In my interpretation, this is a deliberate choice by the director to support the character; it emphasizes Vasil’s words and his fear for his forest. He grants Vasil’s character the power of ambiguity, rendering him alive precisely because he doesn’t own all the answers. He makes a mistake and becomes a traitor simply because he doesn’t know: this feels very relevant in our own time. 

Smolkin Viktor