«Anna Karenina: Neurosis is more beautiful in VO

Cinema Wednesdays - Nicolas Jutzet

The language rings out clearly. The starkness of Russian, the film’s original language, leaves the viewer with the delicate and demanding task of imagining the equivalent in their own language. This, though aided by subtitles, is a challenging exercise. This film is undoubtedly an unparalleled source of motivation for learning the Cyrillic alphabet, as the spontaneity of the dialogue feels so vivid and authentic. Some of the magic is lost in translation, but the essence remains.

The charm of the lead actors—Elizaveta Boyarskaya as Anna Karenina and the stunning lover, Maxim Matveyev, who slips perfectly into the role of Count Vronsky—is undeniable. Opposite them, the spurned husband, played with striking coldness by Vitaliy Kishchenko, will delight Putin fans, given his striking resemblance to the Russian president.

The story unfolds through a chance encounter between the lover and the heroine’s eldest son, played by Kirill Grebenshchikov. The son, now a doctor, treats a count who has been aged by the war. In an ironic twist of fate, after having fought valiantly without ever experiencing the agony of injury, the Count ends his journey in the infirmary, struck by a shell while playing cards with his comrades-in-arms. As the scenes unfold, we discover the story, the difficulties, the resolution, and the explanations. Sergei, the lost child, seeks answers. Sometimes he finds them; other times, the clarifications only lead to further complications. But his mother is always at the center of it all.

This incessant back-and-forth, this return to a painful past, will never cease to captivate the viewer, who only sometimes loses himself in the details of the highly successful setting. The beauty of the scenery and montages leaves a lasting impression, in addition to the remarkable fluidity of the script. Anna Karenina, torn by contradictory and unstable feelings, is a worrisome figure. Her slow descent into hell, interspersed with moments of happiness and respite, is enthralling. The beautiful lady's neurotic drift will weary only the insensitive and the cynical.

Once again, the advantage of being able to draw on a novel—written by Leo Tolstoy, published in 1877, and no less successful—is undeniable. Unlike the film, which is limited in length for fear of offending or boring the audience, the novel allows time to breathe and to delve deeper into the complexity of the characters, without betraying the image conveyed by the film. Enjoy the read!

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