Andrei

Andreas van Dühren

It has become a common opinion that visual artists keep a certain skepticism, if not a distinct reluctance, towards films which depict a member of their own profession. This particular sensitivity, almost an idiosyncrasy, concerns even any brief appearance within a story of a larger scale, all the more when it is about the life and work of … The objections differ, depending on personality and daily mood, and they are convincing at times; still, there may be one reason that is hardly considered, as it touches certain specifics of the medium itself, le cinématographe, not those peculiarities of a discipline which every artist tends to hold with some jealousy. That medium – to apply now the most general term – is called „moving images“, and the difficulties most people have in understanding a single image obviously increase when one image is connected to another one, not only within a definite duration but mounted in time. The easiest way out of this overwhelming confrontation is to stick with that very connection being turned into some narrative: story is the excuse for those who cannot stand art. One can assume that, let’s say, a painter does not have a problem with any image, and let’s assume that this painter has accepted cinema as just another discipline of visual arts; so, it seems that our painter – with all the aversion against cliches any artist instinctively has – actually shies from the contortions a narrative arc must inflict on the true facts of the matter: whatever it takes to create and what has only little resemblance with anything the biographical approach could figure out.
There are a few exceptions, and if these let us overcome that reluctance, then probably because whatever they have to inscribe as an arc – in order to attract us to something like a character – breaks away from the narrative function and becomes apparent as an abstract outline, that is, an idea of „what it takes to create“. Here, character is not much more than a sujet, the artist being only a pretext for art itself – which seems to be almost an attitude which art, if it were some being, would take towards any human. And indeed, that idea is not so much complex as it is enigmatic: it seems that this abstract outline, as we may follow it more and more closely and patiently, makes less and less sense of any particular life, dividing it from creation itself – its hidden, sometimes brutally obvious logic; it suggests that, if there is a specific, that is, a professional passion within an artist’s life, it does not derive from the obstacles or atrocities of existence, but is bound to the indifference which art shows towards even its most loyal servants. Creativity, though we may associate it with life so naturally, does not care about what life is about – at least, what we think it is.
Andrei Rublev does not quite belong to that small group and is even more an exceptional case. It exposes several themes, but art is not one of them. The word „art“ does not occur. (The historian would argue that this is only plausible, as the events shown here precede an era in which the artist as an individual, expressing a subjective notion of the world, would emerge.) Instead, it is faith – and sin – what drives actions and conversations. For more than three hours there is hardly any piece of work to be seen; what we have to witness are preparations, negotiations, fights, torture and killing, travels, seductions and blessings. Although there are forms of evocation – rather, short prayers and curses –, God does not seem to be present. What does matter is the relation between commission and devotion, chance and commitment. If there is a path, then it is defined by aberrations.
What would be the familiar theme of the artist in conflict with society, unfolds here in a different way: not only that art is not an explicit issue, there is not much of a society in a pre-bourgeois world; we do not see cities, just buildings here and there; almost everyone can immediately be subject to tyranny, and chaos can overrule any attempt to achieve something like freedom, compassion, reason or beauty. What would be considered characters, are figures in a landscape – or on a stage as spare as those designed for existentialist or absurd theater – not much different from all those horses, running wild, being slaughtered or used as weapons.
Most of the time Andrei does not stand out; quite often he – like the viewer of the film – is compelled to observe, or he – like the director – interferes and sometimes just throws himself into something he cannot handle. His individuality is not so much personal as it represents the ambiguity of fleeing something threatening or seeking solutions, practical or spiritual ones. It is through his movements that a picture is drawn: of some creature which is tormented – as well as fed – by a sense of the sublime and which is called „human“. This ever modulated man gains a consistency – in the end it will be integrity – through his relationship with something he only knows under the name of „God“. We can see that this God is not to be taken for religion itself, despite of the monasteries, the priests, the rituals, all of which being depicted as variations of the worldly power enacted by princes and warriors.
This does not mean that God is compromised by those who speak in his name. The film does not allow any judgement about the authenticity of one’s creed in particular. Most of all, the protagonist is not struggling with the absence of God. Andrei is dealing with circumstances, he reacts to events, encounters, people; everything has the potential to shift the accent and to shape his faith, and even his decision to stay mute is just another expression of a certain initiative, which has not been his own anyway. Several times one hears the word „talent“, while we do not see any evidence of his skill or craftsmanship, no special approach or method. Art is not made comprehensible by general statements or attitudes; it can speak of many things – not necessarily for itself –, but it does not explain itself.
Passion here is to be understood concretely as a course, and whatever happens is one station or just some mark; we cannot know which one is more significant. Still, the viewer does not feel that it would make no sense. This long way which Andrei takes, appears like a figurative arc; its relation to that abstract outline is mysterious but constant: God – or art – does not contradict the contingencies of a human’s life; one may even be immanent to the other, and this merely functional relation might be the only meaning. Hardly any human can be content with such a plain contract; one has to evolve, to expand, to embrace, and obviously transcendence is an excuse God does not need.
The film however does unfold an idea of creativity: that the work is already written and that the artist can only interpret what has been laid out like nature itself – that inspiration is nothing irrational, no vague whisper, but the precise devotion to some text which has to be figured out, translated, performed. It is concentration itself what speaks to us, connecting us with something that we inherit and have to discover outside of ourselves.
There are several characters which seem to act as Andrei’s satellites; but the man who takes off with a balloon is just a failing dreamer, the satyr is not much more than a clown, and the retarded girl is nothing else – all of them being false derivatives, misunderstandings of what an artist is. Andrei Rublev does not offer some romanticizing or idealizing metaphor, it is mapping a single existence – representational insofar, as it suggests the artist as a professional human being.  
Boriska, the bell founder’s son, is a special case: an imposter who succeeds in what he was pretending, innocent and sly, confident and frightened; he can hardly set an example, yet he appears like a miracle and leads to the apotheosis.
In one scene – in the middle of a field, with a road often dividing the frame symmetrically – Andrei does speak about his struggle … And for once one is reminded of other films in which an artist is seen in some debate with a counterpart, like Aschenbach and Alfred in Morte a Venezia or Van Gogh and Gaugin in Lust for Life. Actually, it is a particular problem, and he is quite articulate about it: he thinks that he cannot carry out the commission, The Last Judgement, as the one thing he has not been taught is purity. He does not want to scare off the people – not to discourage them in what he considers true faith? Again, it is not about skill or mastership; talent, being something one cannot achieve, a gift one must not abuse, implies a responsibility one cannot fulfill in particular, one cannot lay off; there is no other instance than oneself, and purity, even if it is ever obtained, is nothing one could possess.
The film’s structure – with its chapters and topics, examinations and markings – suggests the path of a hero; a hero is someone who is not sovereign at all, but who is kept blindfolded by an unknown force, guided through all the events he believes to be managing. It is an ambiguous scheme: notions of life and faith are intertwined, although we know, there is no causality here.
The last eight minutes consist of details taken from several icons the real Andrei Rublev made, the one who belongs to art history. Before that there is already one shot in colour, a few logs of burnt wood; all along the way we have seen a lot of mud and ashes, and one cannot avoid the idea of residue laying the ground for any creation. It may be a bit too compelling, but cinematically speaking one has to admit that this shot works as a perfect link to an elaborate glorification. Of course, the artist has vanished.
At this point we are not part of an experience anymore, and perhaps it is because I am not a believer that the final scene of another film, seemingly as different as possible – in its combination of sentimentality and cynicism –, came to my mind, Montparnasse 19: Morel, the dealer who, right after Modigliani’s death, is grubbing all the works he can find, almost in some frenzy and actually in a time-lapse. The way one’s life ends does not have to make sense, and fame does not contribute much to that.