This film manipulates historical footage to reanimate bygone leaders, from European fascists to Jesus Christ. It's darkly entertaining stuff - but its lack of a clear strategy make its 78 minutes feel long.
The dictators are portrayed in 'deep fake' archival footage, presenting them as their authentic selves. These images evoke a ghostly presence; occasionally, one of these spectral figures will engage in an action, like caressing the face of an adoring yet unseen member of the crowd or raising an invisible cigar.
In James Joyce's Ulysses, Stephen Daedalus melodramatically observes that history is "a nightmare from which I am trying to awake." Sokurov, in a literal sense, embodies this notion.
There's also a curious sense of nostalgic fondness for these revived dictators, reaching a level where the director's intentions become uncertain. We witness these perpetrators of mass violence engaging in mundane activities like using urinals - Adolf Hitler even seen using a toilet - but does this portrayal serve to humanize them or diminish their significance?
In a pitiful scene, Mussolini catches sight of his and his mistress's battered, disfigured bodies among a heap of corpses. However, this experience fails to impart any lesson, devoid of any redeeming influence. Their sole remorse isn't for the enormity of the massacre but rather for its perceived inadequacy. Stalin ruefully states: "We didn't have enough time to shoot them all."
In the end, Sokurov's film proves to be as perplexing as a haunting dream. It resembles more of a scenario than a narrative, and despite its concise 78-minute duration, it feels long. While there may be a form of retribution for the dictators - albeit feeling ultimately inadequate, particularly since their victims are depicted as mere indistinct figures - it lies in the relentless cycle of repeating their actions, unable to break free from their destructive tendencies. On screen, at least, this serves as their eternal fate: forever trapped in the unending nightmare of history.
The dictators are portrayed in 'deep fake' archival footage, presenting them as their authentic selves. These images evoke a ghostly presence; occasionally, one of these spectral figures will engage in an action, like caressing the face of an adoring yet unseen member of the crowd or raising an invisible cigar.
In James Joyce's Ulysses, Stephen Daedalus melodramatically observes that history is "a nightmare from which I am trying to awake." Sokurov, in a literal sense, embodies this notion.
There's also a curious sense of nostalgic fondness for these revived dictators, reaching a level where the director's intentions become uncertain. We witness these perpetrators of mass violence engaging in mundane activities like using urinals - Adolf Hitler even seen using a toilet - but does this portrayal serve to humanize them or diminish their significance?
In a pitiful scene, Mussolini catches sight of his and his mistress's battered, disfigured bodies among a heap of corpses. However, this experience fails to impart any lesson, devoid of any redeeming influence. Their sole remorse isn't for the enormity of the massacre but rather for its perceived inadequacy. Stalin ruefully states: "We didn't have enough time to shoot them all."
In the end, Sokurov's film proves to be as perplexing as a haunting dream. It resembles more of a scenario than a narrative, and despite its concise 78-minute duration, it feels long. While there may be a form of retribution for the dictators - albeit feeling ultimately inadequate, particularly since their victims are depicted as mere indistinct figures - it lies in the relentless cycle of repeating their actions, unable to break free from their destructive tendencies. On screen, at least, this serves as their eternal fate: forever trapped in the unending nightmare of history.