Battleship Potemkin

Russia (1925)
Sergei Eisenstein, dir.

by Christopher Collier (8/24/07)

Kicking off this marathon of Greatest Films, I was forced to ask myself: how do you define "Great"? It is obviously not in terms of Box Office receipts, because in that matter, the Greatest Film of all time would be 1997’s love epic Titanic and then closely followed by a slew of films about Hobbits, Pirates, Wizards, and Jedi Knights (and a Southern Plantation named Tara if you account for inflation). Titanic, however, has not appeared on any of the defining lists of Greatness. The four films that comprise this marathon, however, have been cited by both Sight and Sound in their decennial poll which combines both critics and directors choices and by the American Film Institute as paragon examples of the art of Cinema. While this does not help answer the question of Greatness, it does limit the field and provide insight into what criteria those who assigned Greatness used.

To understand the limiting factors that come into play, I will pose a hypothetical situation: that the import of a film is measured by its approximation of reality, that it works as a metaphorical mirror to the world. With this as the guide, it would be very simple to sort out many films based on their plot. Any science fiction or fantasy would be stricken from the Greatness lists, as would art films and films with imaginative dream sequences or crazy, discontinuous editing. Following the advent of sound, all silent films can be tossed; the same can be done following the introduction of color.

With these guidelines of reality as a measure, all four films that currently contend as The Greatest Film Ever Made are instantly dispatched due to the fact that they are all in unrealistic, bland black and white. Were we, however, to give films a second chance that had an unfair historical positioning, such that films before the color divide could contend – as they were as real as they could be under the existing technology Battleship Potemkin and The Rules of the Game could still be in contention. But, the editing style of Potemkin instantly disqualifies it because it transcends reality (more on this shortly), and The Rule of the Game, which will be discussed next week, may have a shot, it is inevitable that it would be trumped by a more modern, color film which has a better depiction of reality: something akin to a two-hour segment from the nature channel with no voice-over, camera pans and which shows a lion sleeping and doing little else.

But film Greatness, thankfully, is not measured on replicating the real world, but, instead in what one can achieve visually and symbolically through the language of image and their combinations. And it is for this reason that Sergei Eisenstein’s Battleship Potemkin was awarded Greatest Film of All Time by a panel of experts at the 1958 World’s Fair and has consistently ranked high in the Sight and Sound polls.

Eisenstein was both a director, film maker, and theorist and it is his film theory which not only has made his name a crucial one in film history, but which laid the groundwork for how film is analyzed and studied. His work on the theory of montage, or how images are shown in relation to each other forms the backbone of critical thinking and writing about film. In a nutshell, Eisenstein wanted to use the images to work in a Marxist Dialectic, where conflicting ideas and imagery would collide forcing the viewer to reach a higher state of mind, in which the film did not merely convey plot, but metaphor. Developing his techniques to counter the ideas of seamless Hollywood filmmaking, Eisenstein’s work used multiple, disjointed angles, heightened visual imagery and lighting, and ensemble casts to force the viewer into an understanding beyond simple causality.

Potemkin remains one of the cornerstones of his work, and is his theoretical writing brought to life. Recalling the events of the mutiny and failed revolt against the Czarist regime that started upon the Royal Battleship Potemkin and then spread through the port town of Odessa, Potemkin utilizes theoretical montage to the highest degree. The cast is made up of crowds of people, mostly non-actors, with no lead actor or actress, and the camera and lighting work all combine to showcase binary oppositions of the classes and then smashes them together in a dialectical synthesis.

While this film may be theory-incarnated, it felt like an assignment to watch it. I am sure that given enough time and after reading more of Eisenstein’s works, I would be able to find a much fuller appreciation for it. That said, when I do watch it again, I need to see if I can find a copy with the original score. The 1970’s Soviet reprint replaced it with a collection of Shostakovich symphonic works, mostly Symphony No. 5. While I find Shostakovich’s work wonderful, it detracted from Eisenstein’s. Potemkin, while propagandistic and a bit dry, is a textbook on editing and form and deserves the music that was written to compliment it and not just some Russian music tacked on.