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For the majority of its running time, ‘Burnt By The Sun’ (1994) baths in the exquisite, dreamlike surroundings that make up the idyllic 1930s Russian countryside and frame the seemingly harmonic existence of (a fictional) retired war hero of the Bolshevik Revolution, Colonel Sergei Kotov, (played by the film’s director Nikita Mikhalkov). Kotov, alongside his gracious young wife Maroussia, (Ingeborga Dapkunaite) daughter Nadia (Nadezhda Mikhalkova) and various members of an extended family, delightfully indulge in the summertime festivities, oblivious to the growing threat of Stalin’s closing in regime.
Like Claude Chabrol’s countryside chiller ‘Le Boucher’ (1970), Robert Altman’s aesthetically offbeat detective thriller ‘The Long Goodbye’ (1973), and more recently Anthony Minghella’s ‘The Talented Mr Ripley’ (1999), ‘Burnt By The Sun’ is steeped in deceivably rich, sun-drenched aesthetics that lull the audience into a false sense of security, setting things up for a deeply penetrating and disturbing narrative flux. Defying genre logic, the film disguises itself as a warm, almost strangely comedic family drama up until its emotionally dramatic denouncement.
The film’s title refers to the people who were ‘burnt by the sun’ of the Bolshevik revolution, and to offer symbolism we witness, at intervals, the faintly threatening spectacle of an animated ‘fireball’, which roams the idyllic Russian land and interior spaces of Kotov’s countryside residence.
After both a noticeably muted pre-titles interlude, set in steely grey urban Moscow, and a faintly surreal title sequence involving a couple dancing on ice while a band sing the film’s titular song, Burnt By The Sun jumps to the aforementioned Russian countryside of 1936 to follow a near absurdist set-up involving the esteemed Colonel Kotov. Interrupted by a local resident, Kotov is lured from his private steam bathhouse, in order to help ward off a slew of tanks who are threatening to mow down the villages’ wheat fields. The comedic elements are further heightened by Kotov’s own vocal ranting, during which he intrepidly mounts a horse bareback whilst moaning to himself that he always gets interrupted on his day off. The fanatic musical score heard during this scene helps to exaggerate the bogus hilarity of proceedings, giving further definition to Kotov’s clear deranged enjoyment when he finally witnesses the fleeting spectacle of the conflict and orders the men to turn back their vehicles.
After the conflict is resolved the film plays out like a nostalgic family comedy with little hint toward what is quietly brooding beneath it. The idiosyncrasies of various family members are captured laboriously as they bicker, fool around and relax in the comfort of their luxurious home and plentiful surroundings. We see a couple of mischievous old ladies secretly dump someone’s cherished rare herbal medicines into a lake, we witness a bemused reoccurring motorist who repeatedly fails in his attempts to be directed by the locals and amongst these and other notable pratfalls a towering structure is being built to salute Stalin’s terrifying regime.
This sense of amusement is further enhanced when, half an hour into the film, an eccentric ‘stranger’ bursts into the colonel’s home frantically announcing himself as the ‘wizard from Maghreb’. Groping a voluptuous member of the family and further proceeding to flatter and insult other members, the seemingly prehistoric old man eventually stations himself at the family’s grand piano, plays triumphantly and then rips off his ‘elderly man’ disguise revealing himself to be Mitia, (Oleg Menchikov) an old family friend and former lover of the colonel’s wife Maroussia.
This sudden eruption, early into the day, from this young, confidently handsome jester-like figure promotes even more of a sense of fun and excitement into the family’s lives. But beneath the hapless exterior of Mitia lurk a more sinister agenda. Not that the audience are given any hint toward these brooding misdemeanours that will eventually surface. The mise-en-scene is so cunningly playful and quietly deceptive that when something unusual or different does occur it’s the music that has to alert us to the fact. An example of this occurs during an extended family picnic scene which takes place by a picturesque lake. Mitia, utilising his charms in an attempt to possibly woe his former lover Maroussia, decides suddenly to jump into the water but fails to resurface after an elongated period of time. The previously enchanting hypnotic musical beat that emits diegetically from a radio is suddenly dominated by a momentarily threatening non-diegtic score. However directly after this we realise that this is just another one of Mitia’s pranks, as he emerges unscathed beside the swamp to startle and taunt an unamused Maroussia.
But there is a tension that surrounds the unknown motivations and general ambiguous presence of this disobedient character. We learn that Kotov and Mitia have previously met and we begin to sense a certain competitive rivalry between the two characters, which is hinted through the various suspicious glances that Kotov gives the younger man. However, we are not let in on the exact details of this former encounter until much later on in the narrative. To counteract this, the sickly-sweet tinge of the aesthetics and general foolhardy nature of proceedings suggest little more than a harmless jealousy brewing, with the narrative pace remaining seductively alluring and unthreatening.
Furthermore, to undermine any sense of foreboding threat or attack the drill preparations that are undertaken by the local civil defence regiment, (equipped accordingly with gas masks and stretchers), are mocked by the surrounding bathers making it appear superfluous in its sudden extreme undertaking. This further serves to isolate the residents from any growing threat of attack and pits them in their own self-configured cut-off dream world, as if the possibility of attack were so remote it could not possibly touch them. Mitia also enthusiastically apes proceedings, leading him to later don a confiscated gas mask whilst performing the musical accompaniment to the can-can.
But after the fun and games the laughter finally subsides, and we get to learn a little more about Mitia’s history in a pivotal scene following the family dinner. He tells the bitter, tragic story of a musically gifted boy called ‘Latim’ who was taken from his home as a young man to fight in the war with eager hopes to marry a girlfriend and raise a family. But to the boy’s disappointment these hopes were blighted when he was sent away on a nondescript ‘mission’ by a distinguished comrade who subsequently took the hand in marriage of his intended love. The story is told directly to Kotov’s infant daughter Nadia, but you suspect it is dramatised to equally taunt the colonel and upset Maroussia, mirroring the reality of Mitia’s own thwarted hopeful opportunities by an envious Kotov.
The story strikes a nerve with the family and a distort Maroussia threatens to commit suicide before a pleading Kotov. The audience is not let in on the actual dialogue between the feuding couple, as the music emitting from Mitia’s instrument drowns the soundwaves and mutes the argument witnessed between them. But the rift quickly phases out and the couple end up reconciling and later making love with Kotov justifying his actions to Maroussia. Kotov later confronts Mitia about his continual mind games in order to unveil the truth behind his untimely return. But this discussion is muted from both a peeping Morossia and in turn the audience. All we are provided with is the tail end of the conversation, which informs us that a car will be arriving in a couple of hours to collect the two men. Kotov appears rather blasé about Mitia’s intentions but reassures him that he will go along with his plans after a harmless game of family football.
It is after this event that we begin to grasp the details of Mitia’s intentions and the consequences that have led to his sudden family reunion. We learn that Mitia is working as a spy for the Russians and Kotov has now been branded a traitor of Stalin’s regime. Although the discussion is frank and has serious and drastic repercussions for Kotov - whom we learn will now face questioning and probably execution - the dramatic emotional effects are softened by the sudden appearance of Kotov’s excitable daughter Nadia, who innocently announces the arrival of the vehicle which will take the colonel away. This quickly resumes the film’s customary unthreatening comedic tone, with the family remaining oblivious to the sinister goings on, and the colonel happy to maintain a vision of buoyant delusion, leaving the family locked up in their own romantic dreamworld.
The colonel retains a calm, collective and courageous optimism even during his abduction in an unmarked car. He only reaches breaking point after he is rudely silenced by his abductors, after an attempt to vainly alert a passing motorist to his worldly presence. As he is brutally assaulted the camera chooses to turn away from the results of the violent pounding and instead focus on the men delivering the blows. This further serves to outline the film’s reluctance to fully disclose the brooding visual climate of Stalin’s threatening regime and ultimately reveals Kotov as a deluded raging fool, who believed his status as a gargantuan war hero could save him from Stalin’s oppressive wrath.
It is to director Mikhalkov’s obligated credit that he has successfully hidden the unsettling truth at the core of Burnt By The Sun, prolonging a misleading optimism until the staggering narrative conclusion. This fundamentally leads to a more disquieting and politically powerful effect that pits the audience into the position of the information deprived central character. Further serving to demonstrate how a deceptive aesthetic can communicate an even more unnerving and potent insight into a historically infamous political regime.
Country: France/Russia
Budget: $2,800,000
Length: 135mins
Filmography:
Le Boucher, 1970, Claude Chabrol, Les Films de la Boétie
The Talented Mr. Ripley, 1999, Anthony Minghella, Paramount Pictures
The Long Goodbye, 1973, Robert Altman, Lions Gate Films
Pub/2008
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