Is the unmarked passage of time from one scene to the next a reflection of inadequacy of film-making, that the film flows so freely from start to finish - or is it an artistic expression of the great fluidity of life, of how time flies? Is the separation of the narrative into distinct scenes that don't always mesh perfectly together, slightly fragmented and less organic than in other silent films, an indication of stilted storytelling and film-making - or is it an artistic expression of how with the passage of time memories are often distilled into discrete moments more than a whole tale from start to finish? I suppose one could argue either way; cinema is an art, and art is subjective. I think it's fair to say that 'The dying swan' isn't a picture likely to appeal to viewers who aren't already enamored of the silent era; however one considers its construction, this bears the type of more staggered sequencing that is one of the aspects to turn off modern audiences.
For any subjective weaknesses, though, there is much to appreciate here. Above all, I think the writing is quite solid, if light and uncomplicated by the standards of all the years since. Zoya Barantsevich concocted an engaging narrative, one that turns unexpectedly dark and could feasibly be heralded, to some extent, as an early example of psychological drama. Scenes ably keep our attention as they build the story, and while characters are also perhaps less complex than what audiences are accustomed to from subsequent pictures, but are nonetheless varied, with strong personalities and a measure of depth. As a matter of retrospective tracing the progression of the art form, but also on its own merits, I think Barantsevich's screenplay holds up admirably well.
Director Yevgeni Bauer is noted for his contributions to the advancement of film as art, and as 'The dying swan' runs on, one finds more and more shots and scenes that help to articulate that reputation. Following from Barantsevich's groundwork, Bauer illustrates a keen eye for composition that minds the placement of actors in a shot; the camera's placement relative to a background; the arrangement of shots to reveal or withhold visual information as is appropriate for storytelling purposes in any given moment; camera movement, however modest, which seems like a strong development for cinema in 1917; and, among still other considerations, robust and dynamic lighting. To be sure, 'The dying swan' is very simple on the surface, but there's ultimately a lot going on here, from every angle, and it's a pleasure as watch as a cinephile.
The cast likewise demonstrates fine capabilities with performances of nuanced range, poise, and physicality. With each character exhibiting definite traits to set them apart, each actor gives a wonderful portrayal exploring those roles with all the space available to them. This is especially true of Andrej Gromov as the morose, obsessed artist Glinskiy, and still more for Vera Karalli as dancer Gizella; her part especially is written with swings from one one mood to another, and she navigates those shifts quite deftly.
There's unmistakably a simplicity to the story, and an ease to relationships between characters unsaddled by realistic complications, that rather make impressions as shortcuts in the telling. Whether one wishes to chalk this up to contemporary necessities of a developing medium, or a shortcoming of this specific instance, is maybe up for debate. Yet what it ultimately comes down to is that the chief issues one may claim of the title are nothing that aren't common to silent films at large. And that at once emphasizes both that, again, this probably is a feature for those who already enjoy early cinema - and that 'The dying swan,' in and of itself, is a title that is decidedly rich and worthy. Even clocking in at only a hair under 50 minutes, I think this is a fine way to spend one's time for anyone who appreciates movie history.
For any subjective weaknesses, though, there is much to appreciate here. Above all, I think the writing is quite solid, if light and uncomplicated by the standards of all the years since. Zoya Barantsevich concocted an engaging narrative, one that turns unexpectedly dark and could feasibly be heralded, to some extent, as an early example of psychological drama. Scenes ably keep our attention as they build the story, and while characters are also perhaps less complex than what audiences are accustomed to from subsequent pictures, but are nonetheless varied, with strong personalities and a measure of depth. As a matter of retrospective tracing the progression of the art form, but also on its own merits, I think Barantsevich's screenplay holds up admirably well.
Director Yevgeni Bauer is noted for his contributions to the advancement of film as art, and as 'The dying swan' runs on, one finds more and more shots and scenes that help to articulate that reputation. Following from Barantsevich's groundwork, Bauer illustrates a keen eye for composition that minds the placement of actors in a shot; the camera's placement relative to a background; the arrangement of shots to reveal or withhold visual information as is appropriate for storytelling purposes in any given moment; camera movement, however modest, which seems like a strong development for cinema in 1917; and, among still other considerations, robust and dynamic lighting. To be sure, 'The dying swan' is very simple on the surface, but there's ultimately a lot going on here, from every angle, and it's a pleasure as watch as a cinephile.
The cast likewise demonstrates fine capabilities with performances of nuanced range, poise, and physicality. With each character exhibiting definite traits to set them apart, each actor gives a wonderful portrayal exploring those roles with all the space available to them. This is especially true of Andrej Gromov as the morose, obsessed artist Glinskiy, and still more for Vera Karalli as dancer Gizella; her part especially is written with swings from one one mood to another, and she navigates those shifts quite deftly.
There's unmistakably a simplicity to the story, and an ease to relationships between characters unsaddled by realistic complications, that rather make impressions as shortcuts in the telling. Whether one wishes to chalk this up to contemporary necessities of a developing medium, or a shortcoming of this specific instance, is maybe up for debate. Yet what it ultimately comes down to is that the chief issues one may claim of the title are nothing that aren't common to silent films at large. And that at once emphasizes both that, again, this probably is a feature for those who already enjoy early cinema - and that 'The dying swan,' in and of itself, is a title that is decidedly rich and worthy. Even clocking in at only a hair under 50 minutes, I think this is a fine way to spend one's time for anyone who appreciates movie history.