Directed by Andrey Zvyagintsev
To say that Kolya is unhappy is to perhaps read more into the hauntingly stark northern Russian landscape that frames this movie. Granted, he has enough drama in his life. His teenage son hates his stepmother, and the mayor, Vadim (Roman Madyanov, who looks like a portly Donald Trump), is after his property with the collusion of the police, the district court, and, to an extent, the Orthodox Church. So, yes, Kolya’s entitled to be unhappy.
Leviathan is Russia’s entry to this year’s Academy Awards for best foreign-language film. If it gets the nod, it will likely be seen as an indictment of the country’s culture of corruption. It is certainly interesting to note that the film’s lead, Aleksei Serebryakov, cited precisely that reason for emigrating to Canada with his family in 2012. And yet his Kolya, short-fused as he is, does not look too unhappy with his station in life. He doesn’t choose to be. In his own way, he is a loving father and husband, a good friend, and a law-abiding citizen. It takes a while to warm up to him, but understand that he is as much a product of his natural environment as of his country’s political system: cold, hard, and not a little uncaring. Not particularly religious, he finds solace in family, friends, and vodka.
Watching Kolya navigate the world at large, I am conscious of my blasé assessment of his predicament. Corrupt officials? Hypocritical prelates? Red tape? Blackmail? So what else is new? Kolya might as well be Filipino. Except we no longer have Fernando Poe, Jr. righting wrongs on our behalf against an unjust system. Here, as in Putin’s new Russia, there are no more heroes, just ordinary people trying to get by, hoping not to get noticed for the wrong things. Like your house sitting on a prime location, for example. As the novelist Jamaica Kincaid says, you don’t pursue unhappiness — it comes looking for you.
What, then, is one to do? Kolya harbors no illusions that the system is fair. He doesn’t even bother to whine about it. His lawyer tries to play dirty in an attempt to beat Vadim at his own game, and for a while it looks as if it’s working. But hope in one hand and shit in the other, then see which fills up first. The question of God comes up and is promptly dismissed: “I believe in facts.” The fact is, Kolya doesn’t need the likes of Padre Corcuera in Eddie Romero’s Ganito Kami Noon, Paano Kayo Ngayon? (1976) to tell him what he doesn’t care to know: “God loves the poor, but only Him. No one else cares.”
But must Kolya be so accepting? Shouldn’t he be more pro-active, like, I dunno, blow up buildings, people, whatever? Zvyagintsev was reportedly inspired by an incident in Colorado where Marvin Heemeyer demolished the town hall (and several other buildings) in a fit of rage over a zoning dispute (he later killed himself inside his retrofitted bulldozer). Kolya simply broods. And drinks (like the mayor, your typical lush who gets his courage from a flask — if not from his spiritual counselor, who dispenses philosophical advice but refuses to hear about their logical consequences). When Kolya finally loses everything, he encounters a kindly old priest who tells him the biblical story of Job. Is that supposed to comfort Kolya? He’s already living the life, isn’t he? Amazing how much unhappiness can grow out of a piece of land. If life is but a cruel joke, the film’s penultimate scene counts as one of the most sardonic punchlines ever committed to celluloid.
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