The Commissar (1967)
10/10
Reality vs. Fairy tales
20 September 2008
Warning: Spoilers
From staunch militant to sensitive mother, Vavilova's search for self-identity is one that creates meaningful stories, both internally and externally. She is a very curious character. With masculinity and devout patriotism as two of her defining qualities, she does not subscribe to the typical female persona (at least in the beginning).

Each quality creates a thought provoking dynamic for how she faces internal and external wars. Her internal war is pregnancy. As the child grows within her poses a threat to her masculinity, a subsequent external war is created—that is, the child additionally poses a threat to her patriotic rank as Commissar. Although both wars throw her life into a state of imbalance, they also help develop her in becoming a more volitional and rounded character. In particular, her internal war creates maternity and sensitivity—two qualities that lacked in her previous commanding status.

She acquires both qualities after giving birth; this is depicted when singing a lullaby to her sleeping babe as well as when emotionally breast-feeding him (two actions which run contrary to her initially bleak and cold persona). Her external war (i.e. love of country), so too created by the pregnancy, introduces the most difficult challenge she has to face in the film: the choice of whether to marry herself to her country by divorcing from her child, or keeping her child and ridding her patriotism.

What draws her to eventually side with her country is a series of haunting flashbacks and clairvoyant visions. In one specific moment while suffering through the birthing process, her mind flashes to a dreary landscape filled with military soldiers, who, like herself, struggle to push a heavy piece of artillery up the side of a steep and sandy hill. This image evokes at least one particular meaning—one which acts like a stepping stone to help Vavilova make her final decision when giving up her child: The collective group pushing the machine uphill is a type of not only the communist ideals that Vavilova stands for, but is also a metaphor for the strenuous birthing process itself. In other words, the birth of a child and the birth of a nation are equally painstaking tasks—both which require exertion (i.e. masculinity) and loyalty (i.e. patriotism).

The flashback ends with her waking up in panic, repeating to herself several times: "Stop torturing me." These words speak on multiple levels. In one sense, she is tired of being mentally tortured from the government that oppresses her with stringency. In another sense, she is tired of being physically tortured during the birthing process. Rich is the emotion and meaning of this flashback, and consequently it later leads to an extremely significant clairvoyant vision.

During this vision she witnesses the forthcoming holocaust of WWII. She sees herself with child swaddled in arms, shuffling amongst a sheepish group of Jews as they wander to their death chambers. Reluctant to follow what she sees, it's as if she's asking herself while in vision, "Is this my fate?" Her subtexual obstinacy kicks in: "No, it can't be." She is the author of her choices and will not be subject to any deterministic beliefs. She feels she can change this outcome, but she must act now. However, the choice to act is a difficult one given her present circumstance. What choice does she make: raise her child or fight for her country? She cannot do both, for by focusing on one the other is inevitably sacrificed. Where, then, is optimism to be found in her utterly bleak and tortured world? The aesthetics of the film help contribute to this bleakness by the director's choice of shooting the story in black and white. Only in a world like Vavilova's are colors of the rainbow absent. The black and white look is a reflection of the coldness she feels inside, empty of any optimism. Interestingly enough, however, the Jews surrounding her in vision seem to be optimistic—they raise their arms in an almost dance-like ritual, knowing full well that death will soon embrace them all. She steps back nervously. Her body language has spoken. She remembers back on the corrupt youth that exist in her present—the ones who so ignorantly mimic their corrupted elders—and feels an obligation to save the youth, and particularly her own child from such corruption. Although most of this is more or less implied, I strongly believe that this extraction is highly plausible given her final decision.

She does not abandon her child, though some may argue so. She leaves her child in the hands of a very nurturing family; ones who she could trust since they too had nurtured her during her period of birth and even rebirth. Holding the confidence that her child will be safely watched after, she returns to her former state of balance by joining the war effort. She has rediscovered her meaning, place and identity in life: she is a warrior. Her life cannot be lived in fairy tales, like Yefim suggested when turning the war into a theatrical play for his children. Her life must be lived in truth and in truth only. That is the film's predominant theme: Despite how ugly the truth of reality is—even during times of war and torture—it must be embraced and dealt with; not thrown to some fantasy that creates false optimism. By living in a fairytale, she potentially falls prey to becoming a victim of the holocaust; by living in truth, she attempts to reverse the effects of such an outcome by fighting the monster of war.
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