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Vừa down và xem xong phim "Cuckoo" của Nga làm 2002. Hay quá, ngang cỡ Svoi.
Các bác xem giới thiệu nhé:
Alexander Rogozhkin: Cuckoo (Kukushka) (2002)
A nail is hammered into stone while men in Wehrmacht uniforms are meticulously preparing the proper vantage point for a sniper''s position. With this opening sequence of images, Aleksandr Rogozhkin''s film The Cuckoo begins in medias res, but soon adds a profound existential dimension to the seemingly routine sequence of World War II military activity. A Finnish soldier has been condemned by his unit and is forced to don an SS uniform. Now he must assist in his own enchainment. Imprisoned on a boulder "like Prometheus," as he will later explain, his life is reduced to serve one final purpose: he is to become a "cuckoo," Soviet army slang for a condemned and thus involuntary sniper. This introduction deftly establishes an overarching theme. It hints at the larger, abstract question of how humans could possibly liberate themselves from the brutal constraints of circumstances, especially in war, while it simultaneously renders this idea in its essential concreteness?"an image of one man, shackled to a rock
At the same time, we learn that a Russian captain has been placed under arrest for murky charges of "anti-Soviet plotting" by a political officer and now awaits his fate. When their car is accidentally bombed by Soviet airplanes, the badly wounded captain is the sole survivor. Through his sniper rifle''s telescope, the condemned Finnish soldier observes a Sami woman who finds the Russian captain and drags him to her lone settlement in the vicinity. She tends to his wounds while going about her daily business as if her selfless act of benevolence were a natural part of it. After his patient and meticulous attempts to loosen the nail that ties him to the rock prove fruitful, the Finnish soldier finds his way to the woman''s hut as well. There the three strangers become involved in the difficulties of establishing a fragile and provisional community as they struggle to find and maintain the means for a peaceful coexistence structured around the necessities of survival, namely food, shelter, and companionship.
If this scenario, in which three archetypal representatives of three different cultures collide, recalls the prerequisites for an existentialist drama, the film''s harsh visual style emphasizes this dimension even more. The desaturated film stock and the coldness of its color palette, paradoxically, make vivid the film''s austere sense of place and time, Northern Finland in the September weeks of 1944 before a ceasefire agreement ends combat between Finland and the Soviet Union, and yield a filmic landscape where life is stripped down to its bare fundamental elements. (The film itself was shot on the Kola Peninsula.) The sparse but ominously ethereal musical soundtrack underscores this sentiment effectively. Here, on the periphery of civilization, it seems that the human figure becomes clear-cut and stark in nature.
The film''s ingenuity lies precisely in its refusal to remain on such a potentially portentous scale or succumb to grandiose statements on the human con***ion because it focuses resolutely on the ironic difficulties that arise during the creation of this accidental community. Once the three characters find themselves stuck with each other in the Sami woman''s space, any attempt at meaningful communication is frustrated since not one of them speaks the same language. This fundamental obstacle becomes obvious as they speak at but past each other in Russian, Finnish and Sami, a fact objectively recorded for us by the subtitles. It does not deter them from communicating while they remain trapped in the limits imposed by their own languages. What they communicate to each other, however, is mainly the sound of speech, not understanding itself. In this respect, the subtitles leave the viewer with the vantage position of knowledge. We understand that all of their dialogues are, in fact, monologues, in which only the most rudimentary and random fragments of information are conveyed, and that they mainly reconfirm their acquired biases and prejudices to themselves in their responses to each other. Nonetheless, all three are very loquacious as they attempt to settle the terms of their cohabitation and gradually they begin to develop a real sense of community, in spite of the inherent absur***y of their situation in which little is known about how little they know.
The Finn, Veikko, is a young idealist for whom the "war is over now" because he has escaped his death sentence. His attempts at conveying this notion to the wary older Russian, who never abandons his suspicion of the one he calls "Fritz SS," are a great source of humor. Anni is the Sami woman, whose husband was taken by "soldier-men" four years before. Despite this, she seems to have been able to live her life alone without becoming entangled in the war that has raged around her. She is only grateful that her thoughts have been "read" by "the spirits" and that she has therefore been sent two men at once. The Russian, however, dubbed by Veikko "Gerlost" because his dismissive utterances of "get lost" are misunderstood, does not care to acknowledge that Veikko is "a Finn, not a fascist." To change his obstinate prejudice, it takes one more, almost fatal misunderstanding, which forces Anni *****mmon up the memory of the wisdom of her tribal ancestors. We learn that her real name is "cuckoo." In a beautiful panoramic shot that stands as a coda, Anni tells her two little boys, name Veikko and "Gerlost," the story of their fathers, two men who "tired" of the war and became friends before she sent them on their separate ways. We know the account to be a kind of fiction, a story arranged out of fragments of incomplete knowledge, but it is a fictional story that is told in the spirit of truth.
Aleksandr Rogozhkin tapped into a nationalist vein with his wildly popular Peculiarities films in the 1990s. He has also demonstrated earlier a skill for rendering complex political issues into precise parables with his 1998 film The Checkpoint, one of the more sober contributions to Russian cinematic representations of the war in the Chechnya. For The Cuckoo he has received a number of awards, including the international film critics'' FIPRESCI prize at the Moscow International Film Festival, where the film was celebrated "for the mastery of its mise-en-scene, and the originality and metaphorical and humanistic force of its scenario about the problems of communication among human beings." Indeed, the film''s title suggests its status as a fable. This level of abstraction, however, obscures the film''s hints at a more radical idea in the context of its setting, namely that our reliance on the notion of any essential difference between people should belong to the realm of fiction as well.
sfкf^ка (The Cuckoo)
Russia 2002. 104 min. Color. In Russian, Finnish, and Sami with English subtitles.
Written and directed by Aleksandr Rogozhkin.
Director of Photography Andrei Zhegalov.
E***or Iuliia Rumiantseva.
Production Designer Vladimir Svetozarov.
Music Dmitrii Pavlov.
With Ville Haapasalo (Veikko), Anni-Kristina Juuso (Anni), Viktor Bychkov (Ivan "Psholty").

Giới thiệu thêm về phim "Svoi":

Dmitrii Meskhiev, Our Own, aka Us and Ours [Svoi] (2004)
At the XXVI International Moscow Film Festival in June 2004, Dmitrii Meskhiev?Ts Us hit the jackpot. The film received the Grand Prix?"the Gold St. George?"for Best Film, and also picked up Best Director and Best Male Actor (Bogdan Stupka) awards. In the six months between the film?Ts festival triumph and its more modest release, discussions among film connoisseurs seem to have merged with the film?Ts title: how did ?owe? beat ?othem? (that is, foreign films)? Some comments sound like a paranoid throwback to the 1970s, suggesting that the ?obig? topic of WWII played a role in the jury?Ts decision, or even that Meskhiev?Ts film is a state commissioned work (sotszakaz) for the approaching sixtieth anniversary of the victory in the Great Patriotic War. Be that as it may, with its $2.5 million budget, a host of popular actors, and solid camera work by Sergei Machilskii (Nika Best Cinematographer award in 2003 for Filipp Iankovskii?Ts In Motion), Meskhiev?Ts film is a serious and professional work.
Us, indeed, belongs to a series of recent Russian films?"of which Aleksandr Rogozhkin?Ts The Cuckoo (2002) is perhaps the most celebrated example?"that turn the myth of the Great Patriotic War into an identity quest. In many ways, this is a very tra***ional Russian cinema about testing humanity in the absence of good choices, appealing in its absolute formal and narrative simplicity. Us is set in the early months of the war, as the relentless wave of the Nazi invasion pushes the Red Army further to the East. Like Cuckoo, Meskhiev?Ts film sets its narrative in an indefinite location: it can be Russia, Belorussia, or Lapland. What matters is its liminal status?"it is an ?ooccupied territory,? the space between peace and war, ?ous? and ?othem,? humanity and brutality. And the war itself has not yet achieved the status of the Great Patriotic War in public consciousness, as the site of a mythological struggle where the sides are clear.
Us is a film about escape and banishment. Having escaped from enemy fire, the two protagonists?"a Russian NKVD officer (Sergei Garmash) and a Jewish commissar (Konstantin Khabenskii) hurriedly change their Red Army uniforms for peasant outfits before they are captured by the Nazis. In the prisoners?T column, they meet a young peasant, sniper Mitka (Mikhail Evlanov). Mitka tells them that his village is nearby, and the three escape from the column and head for the village. Once there, they have an unpleasant surprise: Mitka?Ts father (Bogdan Stupka), who spent years in Siberia as a former kulak, is the village headmaster and cooperates with the Nazis. The three characters now face the ultimate challenge: surviving among their own people.
The title of the film is virtually untranslatable and emerges out of the thick of Soviet ideological struggles of the last century, reviving the ?ous? vs. ?othem? opposition. Within the political ideology of Stalinism, none of the male characters is one of ?ous?: three POWs, a former kulak, and a head polizei (Fedor Bondarchuk). The film, however, suggests that the term is imbued with a communal, rather than ideological, logic of inclusion-exclusion. Mitka Blinov, for instance, comes from the village of Blinovo and is related to half of its inhabitants, including several polizei. Characters?T choices?"to kill or not to kill, to betray or to save?"are based on family allegiances and circumstances, not ideology. It is a world of barter: Katia (Anna Mikhalkova) convinces a polizei to exchange a telescopic sight for her mother?Ts earrings; the father plans to ransom his two daughters out of the Nazi prison with two gold coins. Ideology only becomes an issue when one doesn?Tt have a choice, as with Lif****s who, according to the film?Ts narrative, is a sickly Jew, hence a commissar and doomed to die.
Us blurs two dimensions of the war?Ts epic meaning. One is the tragedy of the Nazi invasion, conveyed through slow-motion cinematography, discontinuous montage of panic and destruction, sounds of shooting muted by the extradiegetic music. The Nazi surprise attack on the Soviet Army Headquarters motivates the events of the narrative and brings the three heroes together. The re-appearance of Nazi troops at the end disperses the group and closes the frame. At the same time, Nazis are the least important figures in the film, being ostensibly not ?ous.? German dialogue is never translated, and the German soldiers in a truck driving through the occupied town are strikingly different from the Russians: clean, shaven, young, and most importantly, deracinated and disoriented. The only expression on their faces is bewilderment at Russian life. They have very little control over that life and little understanding of the brutal, unsystematic, ?oTolstoian? warfare waged against them.
?oOur? protagonists kill only those who threaten the blessed insular state of our community. The first victim is the prisoner who threatens to expose Lif****s as a commissar and a Jew if the latter does not give him his food. He has his throat cut by the NKVD officer, who is redeemed by the film?Ts logic because he preserves the integrity of ?ous.? The composition and the raw violence of this and other murder sequences are reminiscent of Petr Lutsik?Ts The Outskirts (1998), which manages to integrate dark humor with a political agenda through its masterful visual revival of socialist realist codes. Lutsik?Ts single-minded heroes, on a mission to ?ofree? their land from the powers that be, torture, kill, bite to death, and set on fire multiple enemies. In Meskhiev?Ts film, too, the struggle for an epic heroic community and the longing for ?ogenuine? masculinity can be iterated only through the return to mythical time.
This mythical time?"and war, as its expressive limit?"constitutes the other epic dimension in Us. The advancing German troops shrink the Russian world to the size of one village, one dark bathhouse, one barn. But this barn is the Russian paradise. It envelopes the fugitives like a womb. Through a crack in the wall, they can peek at ?oour? stout women milking ?oour? cows; they hide in ?oour? haystack and drink ?oour? moonshine, which gives them warmth and epic strength.
The lament by some critics that the film is ?opsychologically undone? by its own ending makes as little sense for Meskhiev?Ts film as it does for Lutsik?Ts The Outskirts. The film itself provides an answer as the closing cre***s start rolling: none of the male characters has a name; the cre***s identify them solely through their ideological functions?"?ocommissar? [politruk], ?ochekist,? ?osniper,? and ?oold man.? Three of these nameless characters represent the three epic warriors who won the Great Patriotic War: the NKVD officer is raw state power; the sacrificial commissar is the idealistic dreamer of a communist utopia; and the young peasant sniper is the popular spirit. They represent exemplary masculinity, but, as the film suggests, only two of them will survive to become new Russian icons: strong state and healthy peasant power.
The first Moscow International Film festival in 1959 awarded the Grand Prix to Sergei Bondarchuk?Ts Fate of a Man, a film about a POW, who for the first time blurred the Stalinist distinction between ?ous? and ?othem.? In Us¸ Bondarchuk?Ts son plays a Nazi collaborator in another war film. Forty five years later and in a different political system, the genre of war film continues to be central to the Russian identity quest, redefining the war as first and foremost the war over the meaning of ?ous.? And it is fitting that the film?Ts camerawork is dedicated to the memory of Pavel Lebeshev, the cameraman for such films as Nikita Mikhalkov?Ts At Home Among Strangers, a Stranger at Home (1974) and The Barber of Siberia (1999), and Sergei Bodrov Sr.?Ts The Prisoner of the Caucasus (1996), all of which are primarily concerned with the re-configuration of Russian masculinity and communal Russian identity.
Elena Prokhorova, College of William and Mary

Vladimir Mashkov, Papa [Papa] (2004)
The theme of fatherhood occupies an increasingly central place in the work of Vladimir Mashkov, recurring with greater intensity in several of his recent films. Having played at fatherhood as Tolian in The Thief (Pavel Chukhrai, 1997), Mashkov then presented a multiplicity of make-believe fathers in his directorial debut, the New Yearâ?Ts film Orphan of Kazan (1997). Mashkovâ?Ts latest film, Papa (2004), an adaptation of Aleksandr Galichâ?Ts play Matrosskaia tishina (1956), confirms the trend and allows Mashkov finally to become an â?oauthenticâ? father.
Papa is the Bildungstale of David Schwartz, and through the telling of his life, the viewer encounters the theme of fatherhood in various manifestations: in family relations, in the fatherland, and in god-the-father. The filmâ?Ts structure corresponds to the first three acts of Galichâ?Ts play, omitting entirely the fourth, with its happy ending, and thus avoiding a final resolution.
In the first part of the film, the action takes place in the Ukrainian village of Tul''chin, where the young David practices the violin and aspires to leave his provincial roots and alcoholic father to study in the Moscow Conservatory. The viewer watches David move through the rituals of boyhood: the often abusive games in which he partakes with other village boys and awkward exchanges of first loves with the neighbor girls. David spends much of his time dreaming, weaving romantic stories about the distant places pictured in the postcards filched from his fatherâ?Ts prized collection. One of these stories involves Matrosskaia Tishina, a place David fantasizes to be a graveyard for ships and a peaceful retirement for sailors.
The establishing shots, sweeping panoramas of the bright landscape, are themselves like postcards, mirroring Davidâ?Ts youthful romanticizing. However, medium shots confined to the dark interior of the home soon interrupt the sprawling, storybook landscapes. Only David and his father, Abram Il''ich, inhabit this space. Their interactions in it, and soon their interactions outside, are marked by schizophrenic moments that demonstrate alternatingly tenderness and abuse. Another mentoring male figure magically materializes when Mayer Wolf returns to Tul''chin after living abroad for several years, again evoking the fairytale with the return of the distant traveler. Mayer tells of his pilgrimage to and subsequent disillusionment with Jerusalem and the Wailing Wall, a story incomprehensible to David and the viewer, but one that nonetheless prefaces the narrative of Davidâ?Ts own life.
The Tul''chin episode gradually grows darker, haunted by the sounds of a train passing in the night, and fades completely. It is replaced by the sound of a booming orchestra and the same kind of postcard-like shots, this time of Moscow streets, members of the Komsomol on parade in their white uniforms, red banners and balloons, and a portrait of the ever-watchful Stalin hanging above it all. David is realizing his dream and is a rising star at the Conservatory. He seems to have shed all connection with his home and past. Having moved from the domestic space of his provincial home to the political space of the capital, a corresponding father figure appears, Ivan Kuz''mich, the Conservatoryâ?Ts party secretary. His paternal nature also features both nurturing and punishing components; like Abram Il''ich and the angry god of the Old Testament, Ivan Kuz''mich â?ogiveth and taketh away.â? In his capacity as party representative, he informs David that he will participate in the All-Soviet Competition of Violinists, but also condones the expulsion of his close friend and roommate from the Komsomol and the Conservatory.
David continues to cling to fantasy, but his idealism becomes more difficult to maintain. The process of his disillusionment parallels the growing disparity between appearance and reality in Moscow itself. The cityâ?Ts dark side disrupts the bright facade with increasing frequency. Dazzling metro stations bustle with happy citizens by day, but greenish bread trucks transport enemies of the people by night. The depot for these traitors is an anonymous building on a street called none other than Matrosskaia Tishina. The site so positively constructed in Davidâ?Ts imagination turns out to be a graveyard for human bodies rather than ships. The ironic play on systems of transportation suggests that the Soviet Unionâ?Ts physical structure reflects the same problematic schema within which David is constructed as an individual. The metro, the positive articulation of official ideology, the ideal, is located underground, while the negative reality that should be concealed (the use of bread trucks to transport traitors and, later, trains to transport injured soldiers) is located on the surface. The reality on the surface is not hospitable to the dream; the dream must defend itself against the challenges it encounters when it moves to the external world, a situation that automatically reduces it from its status as ideal.
Davidâ?Ts domestic and political worlds come into conflict in the Moscow episode when Abram Il''ich suddenly appears at a party, presided over by â?othe political papa,â? Ivan Kuz''mich. David perceives his birth fatherâ?Ts visit as a dangerous rupture in the new, politically correct life he has created for himself. The confrontation that occurs after his fatherâ?Ts arrival in the capital allows David an opportunity to actualize his fantasy of completely rejecting his roots, and he does so by demanding his father leave Moscow. With the dangers of political betrayal so close to Davidâ?Ts everyday life, it is not shocking that he refuses his personal history in exchange for the politicized domesticity of the Conservatory. The expulsion of his father is an idea about which David has dreamed since childhood, and now the circumstances of his new life have reversed the power relations of the parent-child roles and enable him to enact that fantasy. This traumatic moment completes the second part of the film, a conclusion that reverses the finale of the first part: the haunting whistle of the train yielding to the booming Soviet march becomes Davidâ?Ts violent playing of Chaikovskii fading into the sounds of medical trains taking wounded soldiers from the frontlines of the war.
At the beginning of this third and final episode, David, seriously wounded, is loaded onto one of the trains. The train, as so often happens, becomes the site of storytelling in one form or another: an incoherent story told by a fellow injured soldier; the story from home that Davidâ?Ts nurse, a former schoolmate, tells him; and the stories that David and his father share when Abram Il''ich appears from the dead in a mystical moment. Abram Il''ich tells David what happened when the Nazis came to Tul''chin: how he lived in a ghetto, how one day the Jews were rounded up, how their belongings were taken, and how he was killed. David continues the story in his own life and tells of his return to Tul''chin with the army in a voice-over. This episode echoes Mayer Wolfâ?Ts story of his journey to Jerusalem and his reflections upon his return to Tul''chin: the return to the birth home (rather than to the spiritual or political home) proves to be the authentic pilgrimage. The camera tells much of Davidâ?Ts story for him: Tul''chin was completely leveled, except for the old, stone city wall. These panoramas are nothing like the opening postcard shots. Instead, they, like much of this episode in general, offer themselves as pseudo-historical documents. David can appreciate his childhood home only when he is inadvertently taken there once it no longer exists. The old wall becomes his own Wailing Wall.
Before he disappears forever, Abram Il''ich promises David that their story, their family history, does not end with Tul''chinâ?Ts end, but will continue through Davidâ?Ts own son. In Galichâ?Ts play, this possibility is performed in the fourth act, in which Davidâ?Ts wife and son maintain his memory. The film, however, stops here, promising the future continuation only through the hope offered in the telling of stories and, visually, through the forward motion of the train passing across a gray landscape. What the original play offers as temporal continuation, the film summarizes in the movement of the train through space.
Papa plays on the theme of fatherhood in three ideological manifestations: the domestic, the political, and the spiritual. Throughout the film, David as the central subject constructs notions of what each of these â?ofathersâ? means only to have those notions destroyed in encounters with them in reality as highly defamiliarized objects. At times, he finds new fathers to his surprise; at other times, he is disappointed not to find fathers in the places and forms in which he expects them. Memory and its manipulation, as embodied in the numerous stories told within the film, and nostalgia, as aesthetically expressed in the recurring train images and soundtrack, create the unifying devices of the film. These sentimental elements often overpower the psychological and satirical themes that are more pronounced in Galichâ?Ts Matrosskaia tishina. The omission of the playâ?Ts fourth act, however, which was possibly added to appease Galichâ?Ts own political fathers, avoids a resolution that ultimately stifles the power of the themes presented in the first three parts. Papa weaves an often sentimental tale about history-making through the telling of David Schwartzâ?Ts personal history, ultimately implying the artificiality or constructed-ness of ideological edifices, while remaining expressively bound to the concept of fathering as a moment in that construction.
Michelle Kuhn, University of Pittsburgh

Tôi thì chỉ mới ngó bộ "The world at war" của bọn BBC làm về WW2 thôi. Vừa down vừa ngó dần. Nói chung phim này khá hay, giàu tư liệu, chỉ tiếc là ít đề cập đến mặt trận Xô Đức (lý do thì dễ hiểu, đang thời chiến tranh lạnh mà). Có nhiều cảnh đúng là rùng rợn, như cảnh lính NHật bị thiêu như cún ở Okinawa hay cảnh các chú Đức chết cóng ở Stalingrad. Nhiệt liệt tiến cử bộ này với các bác. Xem chỉ hơi tức cái đầu tập nào cũng phải ngắm mặt tay sản xuất ngồi vắt chân nói lèm bèm một thôi một hồi..
Cái phim green berets mà bác nào nói ở trên ấy là do lão John Wayne làm theo đơn đặt hàng để cổ vũ thanh niên Mẽo đi lính sang VN sau Mậu Thân (phim này làm năm 1968). Thế nên nó chuối là chắc rồi, khỏi phải bàn nhiều.

Cảnh đánh chiếm Reichstag (Tòa Quốc hội Đức) trong phim Giải phóng quay rất đạt, dữ dội, ác liệt, lính hai bên chết như rạ (lính Nga chết nhiều hơn).
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Tôi xin phép chỉ giới thiệu phim Nga và Đức, vì phim Mỹ giờ quá dễ kiếm, dễ xem.

Cho tôi hỏi một chút, các bác xem nhiều các film chiến đấu do nhiều nước khác nhau sản xuất khác. Các bác thích phim chiến đấu của nước nào nhất ???
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Phim của Nga làm bây giờ hay thật, hay hơn cả phim Mĩ. Chỉ tiếc là ở Việt Nam ít quá, lâu lâu lọ mọ mới kiếm được vài phim. Vẫn đang tìm phim ''''Spetz natz'''' mà mãi vẫn chưa được.


Được nguyencongtu712 sửa chữa / chuyển vào 15:39 ngày 05/10/2005

Bác nguyencongtu hay quá, kiếm được mấy phim DVD hàng độc. Nếu mua được thêm gửi vào đây cho tớ với. Trong danh sách phim Nga tớ đã down, cậu thích phim nào tớ gửi ra cho nhé.