In Russian with English Subtitles
Genre: Drama
Director: Andrei Zvyagintsev
Cast: Konstantin Lavronenko, Aleksandr Baluyev, Maksim Shibayev, Maria Bonnevie, Katya KUlkina, Dmitry Ulianov, Alexey Vertkov
RunTime: 2 hrs 30 mins
Released By: Lighthouse Pictures & The Picturehouse
Rating: PG

Opening Day: 28 August 2008

Synopsis:

A husband, wife and two children (a boy and a girl) come from an industrial city to the countryside, to the husband’s birthplace, to stay in his father’s old house.

In contrast to the old setting (the city that brightens up the relations between the characters, that smooths the rough edges, and even creates some illusion of happiness and love), the new setting is Nature. It is a setting of breathtaking rolling hills, the bottom of a prehistoric sea, and fertile land, all lying in the ruins of dislike. It is sad even though it is proud. It doesn’t let on. It will demand great sacrifice.

And no one will hold back the hand the father raises against his son. The voice crying out will not be heard. The son will not be replaced by the lamb. For the one who raises the knife has ears that can not hear, eyes that can not see, and a heart that can not feel. Yet his belief in the “law” of human pride is vehement and inexhaustible, as vehement as his remorse. The seed has been planted and the harvest must follow. To the question, “What is The Banishment about?” we respond, “Just like any other film, in one way or another, this film is about all of us – kind, beautiful people in the tragic circumstances of hopelessness”.


Movie Review:

Andrey Zvyagintsev's "The Banishment" is a stark, grave allegory of marital and familial disintegration. The father, Alexander (Best Actor at Cannes 2007, Konstantin Lavronenko)—a slight, lithe, laconic character—faces an unconscionable choice midway through the film. His wife, Vera (Maria Bonnevie), is a quietly tired mother masking a great deal of uncertainty behind pained eyes and faded beauty. Their young children, Kir and Eva, sense that a storm is brewing. This is Zvyagintsev's despairing poetry on the toxic disconnect between loved ones, surveying the limbo between the way things are and the way it should be.

“I’m pregnant, but it’s not yours,” Vera says unhurriedly, looking at her husband imploringly, eyes beseeching, as they lounge on the patio of Alexander's hilltop childhood home in the countryside, far away from the bleak greys of the industrial city where they reside. In that moment, Alexander realises the shift from mental to physical infidelity, less mindful to the betrayal he refuses to talk about than he is to his pride taking a dent. For the first time, the angular complexity of Lavronenko’s face twists into a wordless rage that reveals his only response to the malaise rising within this marriage.

Alexander meets surreptitiously with his shady brother Mark (Aleksandr Baluyev), a criminal sort that needed stitching up and a bullet removed from his arm in the dead of the night just days before. Mark informs Alexander of a gun he left up in a dresser at their father’s home. The moral landscape opens up here with two paths—to forgive or to kill. Both choices demand a hefty price, but remain acceptable as long as one is able to reconcile one’s self with it.

Zvyagintsev creates a dreary mood piece, sustained with tension and a deeply burdening excavation of secrets and silence. There’s an exploration of miscommunication here, not lies. The unspoken becomes just as virulent as falsities; the emotional estrangement between people becomes a source of dehumanising decay. The story of family is timeless in its essence, but intermittent, it’s intrinsic morality however, is everything. Once again, the past has a way of rearing itself into the future. Just as Zvyagintsev saw profundity in the role of the Father in his mesmerising debut, “The Return”, he sees the same here in the dynamics between parents and of spouses. The themes remain similar, but the religiosity of his enterprise is clunkier and more obtrusive.

While the acknowledged influence is Andrei Tarkovsky—nature and pastoral simplicity as it relates to the inner self and the interplay of religious iconography—the resonance of the camera is plainly Zvyagintsev’s. The director, once again working with the cinematographer Mikhail Krichman, seems incapable of framing an ugly image: the open spaces of the golden countryside becomes stupefying and the creaky house itself hinges on a chasm, a solitary wooden bridge is the sole connection to a world outside the confines of family. As the narrative bends and folds, so does Zvyagintsev’s virtuosity with visual chicanery—images and shots blend into one another, revealing the webs of space and time.

For all its technical poise, Zvyagintsev’s story lacks the emotional veracity of his debut. From each shot, right down to its script, everything is so precisely composed that the film becomes antiseptic beneath the tragedy by justifying its theoretical banality with intense symbolism and inorganic actions. Characters have weight but no reality—they seem becalmed, even unaffected—they are ideas acted upon, props for a rambling parable and dangerously on the verge of evoking ennui. But in spite of its inherently languorous sermon, Zvyagintsev tackles the film with the cinematic prose of epic literature by enveloping the film with an aura of solemnity and disquiet.

Movie Rating:



(Solemn and considered, a strong follow-up to the director’s astounding debut)

Review by Justin Deimen