Russian Import

A small but steady consignment of celluloid continues to cross the Iron Curtain westward. Russian movies, still shown in a handful of small U.S. theaters, are mostly party-line pageants, e.g., Sergei Eisenstein's Ivan the Terrible (which was practically rewritten by that supercolossal scenarist, Joe Stalin himself), and heavy footed musicals. But occasionally a good film comes out of Russia. One of the best in years is Sadko (Mosfilm; Artkino). Directed by Alexander Ptushko, who also did Stone Flower (TIME, Jan. 27, 1947), it is a hearty, grandly dressed and often beautiful version of the opera* that Rimsky-Korsakov made out of an old Russian fairy tale.

Sadko, as the tale is told, is a poor man of Novgorod whose heart aches for the sufferings of his people. One night he sings of their sorrows to the sea; and hearing him, the daughter of the Sea King rises through the waves, falls in love with him, and promises to help. In a bit of pre-Marxist fairy-tale socialism, she enables him to relieve a lot of capitalists of their money, which he promptly distributes to the poor. But, Sadko finds, while their bodies now have all they can desire, their souls still want. They are not happy. Whereupon Sadko and some brave friends (one young, one strong, one wise) set out to catch the bird of happiness. After many adventures, Sadko realizes that there is no such bird. "Woe to him," cries the wise friend, "who tries to grasp happiness by a conscious act!" "Happiness," Sadko tells his people on his return, "is here, at home."

Thus the conclusion is much like that of Maeterlinck's great story. Occasionally, the makers of the film seem less concerned with catching the Blue Bird than with making the audiences watch the Red birdie. But on the whole, the film is relatively free of Communist blurbs. The wonder is that the movie, with grace and sureness, finds images to portray the symbols that swarm beneath the surface of the story. Sadko is a spectacle--in adequate color--that need not pale beside Cecil B. DeMille. Dancers flash, warriors buffet, giant storms roll by with a verve that Hollywood can seldom induce. Above all, it is a spectacle that gives glimpses of the soul as well.

The picture has defects. The last scene slips feebly out of hand, and one whole long episode at the bottom of the sea is ludicrously out of sort and rhythm with the rest. Anna Larionova is a bit bovine as the heroine, although Serge Stolyarov is a splendidly male and forthright Sadko. On the whole, by going back to Russian moods far older than Eisenstein or Stalin, this picture achieves an almost childlike air, dreamy, simple, and yet full of hints of ancient wisdom.

*From which the pop record tune Song of India was lifted.

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