I suppose any Russian filmmaker will inevitably be compared to Andrei Tarkovsky, who was such a giant that he practically created what most people think of as “Russian cinema”. It may also be inevitable that any Russian filmmaker will emulate him, whether consciously or unconsciously. Genius always makes its mark on the psyche of a people; think of how much Shakespeare has left his mark on the way we speak, and think, English. So I think it is a great compliment to Andrei Zvyagintsev, who directed the 2003 film The Return, to say that his film follows in those large footprints.

In fact, for most people I think The Return will be a more enjoyable film to watch than, say, Nostalghia. Zvyagintsev lacks Tarkovsky’s obsession with time and memory, and there are none of the excruciatingly long takes and gnomic conversations that can make a Tarkovsky film difficult and sometimes something of a chore. But in the articles of spiritual and aesthetic sensibility The Return does not disappoint.

There is little profit in attempting to describe the beauty of the cinematography, or the rich language of colors, shapes, and weather with which this piece has been composed. All of it must be seen to be believed, and then there are many questions. What does the fleeting shot of a white feather lying on the blue pillow next to the sleeping father signify? What does the father signify? Is he (as all fathers are) an image of God, and if so, what is the meaning of the way he disciplines his sons, at times approaching cruelty? Much of what he tries to teach his sons is of little importance in this world: how to tar a boat, how to speak to women. There is a sense that he has come too late, twelve years too late, and in the wrong century.

As I get older I begin to see how much I, and everyone else, have been marked by who our fathers are. I theorized once to a friend that men tend to repeat the patterns their fathers made, particularly with respect to relationships and above all romantic ones. These patterns are deposited at the deepest levels, because we see how our parents treat each other before we have language. For a woman the situation is somewhat more complicated. She not only inherits expectations of how men ought to treat women from how her father treats her mother, but also from how her father relates to her. So her conditions for feeling loved and accepted are tied up with the understanding of maleness she received from her father. But both men and women build an image of God out of the model of their fathers (and it is for this reason, rather than any notions of maleness, that so many religions call God Father). It has always been easy for me to accept the idea of a loving, self-sacrificing God (and I know that for many people my age this is simply too good to be true), in large part because my dad was so giving of his time and love.

It is difficult to find many works of art that can treat the subject of fatherhood in a deep but unsentimental manner. There is something, perhaps, in the wide, cold spaces of Russia that is germane to such contemplation, because The Return makes up for the silence elsewhere.

(cdm | TheReturn)