A Seminal Masterpiece of Silent Film

Rating: 10/10 (5 July 2007)

The silent film masterpiece Battleship Potemkin (1925) was commissioned by the Soviet government to celebrate the 20th anniversary of the uprising of 1905 and to establish the event as an heroic foreshadowing of the October Revolution of 1917. Ironically the film's director, Sergei Eisenstein, was one of the earliest and most influential advocates of a formalistic approach to film art. Subsequently, Eisenstein's formalism and suspect politics would cause innumerable conflicts with government agencies insisting on "socialist realism." Influenced by the Russian film theoretician, Lev Kuleshov, and through him by D. W. Griffith's Intolerance (smuggled into Russia in 1919), Eisenstein constructed his films from a "collision" of rapidly edited images, a montage of shots varied in length, motion, content, lighting, and camera angle. Without question the most memorable illustration of Eisenstein's stylistic approach - and probably the single most cited and studied sequence in world cinema history - is the "Odessa Steps" sequence in Potemkin.
In structure Potemkin is a "five reeler" divided into five narrative parts, an organization clearly derived from the five-act arrangement of Western drama. In "Men and Maggots," Eisenstein dramatizes the pre-revolutionary oppression and discontent of the battleship's working class sailors as the situation inevitably builds to mutiny. Even before the sailors and their upper class officers/masters are visually introduced, Eisenstein establishes revolutionary conditions symbolically by the collision editing of waves breaking violently and ominously at sea. Onboard ship we witness crowded, unsanitary conditions. Eisenstein emphasizes the sailors' dehumanization with shots of arbitrary lashings, harsh labor, and - most memorably - the maggot infested meat intended for the evening's meal. The ship's nearsighted physician is brought forward by the other officers to declare the meat perfectly suitable to be served with the dark soup, boiling like the sailors' rage. In accordance with Marxist maxims, the church also fails the men, and we see one of them smashing a plate inscribed with words from The Lord's Prayer from two different camera angles (in perhaps the first deliberate "jump cut" in cinema history).
Identified by inter-titles as "Drama on the Quarterdeck" and "An Appeal from the Dead," Potemkin's second and third parts depict the actual mutiny and the onshore funeral of its leader and first hero of the revolution, Vakulinchuk. United by Vakulinchuk's appeals to brotherhood, the initial mutineers are joined by the entire crew in an attack on the officers. A chaotic scene ensues whose violent passion is served well by Eisenstein's editing techniques. The officers' quarters are trampled and symbols of their privilege are destroyed. The ship's doctor is thrown overboard, accompanied by dramatic crosscuts to the maggot-ridden meat and his eyeglasses metonymically dangling in the rigging. Tragically, Vakolinchuk's death is the price paid for the revolt (no omelet without breaking eggs) and he is laid out with dignity on an Odessa pier. Hundreds of ordinary Odessa citizens gather with the sailors to honor him and to pledge "Death to the oppressors." Shots of fists clenching and unclenching signal the birth of revolutionary consciousness.
The complex and unforgettable Odessa Steps sequence constitutes the film's fourth act. It begins with uplifting music and a series of close-ups and medium shots on the elated faces of diverse people on the shore and selected objects (parasol, eyeglasses, baby carriage). Suddenly (as exclaims a title card in huge letters) the music stops and lines of soldiers with drawn rifles and fixed bayonets appear at the top of the steps. Here Eisenstein releases the full force of collision editing as nearly a hundred shots are pieced together to contrast the panicked mayhem and victimization of the citizenry with the relentless assault of the soldiers driving the citizens down to the trampling horses and flying sabers of the waiting Cossacks below. The mise-en-scene is framed by a statue of Caesar at the top of the stairs and a church at the bottom, symbolic metonyms for Russia's oppressive institutions: tsarist monarchy and the Orthodox Christian church.
Punctuating the sequence are two scenes involving mothers and children. In the first, a mother and young boy who had been introduced among the joyous faces in the crowd are among the slaughter's first victims. The boy is shot, but the mother continues running until close-ups of her face convey her horrified gaze at the son's fallen body being trampled by the crowd. With a much slowed editing pace, the camera follows the mother as she carries the lifeless body of her child up the stairs to confront the soldiers (shown only in a diagonal shadow line). They summarily shoot her dead. After this lull, the carnage continues for another several dozen cuts until a second mother is shot through the stomach (the womb of Mother Russia?) as she tries to shield her baby in its carriage. In a scene famously imitated in The Untouchables, the carriage incongruously slips down the staircase. Horrified faces of huddled citizens watch the slow progress to its doom. When the carriage reaches the bottom there is a cut to a Cossack wielding a sword and a classic Kuleshov effect suggests what we do not actually see: the slaughtering of this pure and symbolic innocent. The final series of shots in the Odessa sequence is of three stone lions, one in repose, one sitting up, and one roaring. The editing animates them into a visual metaphor of the people's awakened rage.
Somewhat anticlimactically, the fifth act returns us to the battleship as the mutinous sailors flee on the high seas and await an encounter with other ships from the fleet. They and the viewer expect retribution, but when the meeting occurs no shots are fired and instead all the sailors wave and throw their hats in the air in a symbol of comradeship. Eisenstein was rewriting history at this point since the revolution was not successfully launched for another twelve years. But that quibble aside, Battleship Potemkin stands as one of the seminal works of the silent film era, and it retains extraordinary cinematic power.