Dane Reighard

Post-Soviet Russian Cinema

Prof. Alyssa Gillespie

October 17, 2008

Review of Prisoner of the Mountains

Prisoner of the Mountains is a film that does not have anything particularly new or groundbreaking to say about war, but nonetheless it succeeds as a heartbreaking, humane work because director Sergei Bodrov chooses to focus on fully developed characters rather than battle scenes and political intrigue.

The central conflict in the film is not only the never-ending war between Russians and Chechens, but also another battle which both sides have been waging for years: that of personal identity versus national identity. Each of the primary characters in Prisoner of the Mountains is struggling to maintain some level of human decency and individuality in a war he does not necessarily want to fight, while also remaining loyal to his land and people who initiated the conflict ages ago. As is the case with most wars, this one is not personal; soldiers on both sides are forced to numb themselves into believing that they are killing faceless, interchangeable pawns, not individuals. The only way to counter this loss of dignity is through self-expression, artistic or otherwise.

As an aging veteran of the army, Sasha seems to have lost the ability to express his individuality. His years of service have turned him into a statistic, just another Russian soldier among thousands of Russian soldiers representing his nation, not himself. He remains guarded and cold throughout most of the film, though he hints that this was not always supposed to be the life for him. He reveals, “Everyone told [me] to be an actor,” and his defeated delivery hints that he agreed. This small bit of information stands as a perfect metaphor for the victory national identity has won in Sasha’s life. He does have one moment of emotional release, however. He cries while sitting on the rooftop with Vanya, but it is telling that the two are sitting with their backs toward each other so that the younger soldier does not witness this moment of weakness. Vanya, on the other hand, could not be more different. He could hardly be called a soldier; he is unable to even fire a gun. His individuality remains entirely intact from beginning to end, and he expresses this in a number of ways. The wooden bird he creates and presents to Dina represents an attempt to use art to overcome political boundaries. He is open and vulnerable where Sasha is guarded. When asked if he would rather lose his tongue or his balls, Vanya whispers the answer in Sasha’s ear. His response remains unknown, but one gets the impression that Vanya can accomplish far greater things with his tongue.

The motif of time and clocks also plays a significant role in the film. The Russian/Chechen war has lasted for centuries and will most likely continue for centuries. Progress has stalled in this region, like so many clocks in Abdul’s village. As the anointed clock repairman in the village, Vanya again stands out once again as the type of man Russia needs more of in order to transcend this absurd conflict. If the doomed Sasha is a symbol of old Russia, stubborn and inert, then Vanya is the new, post-Soviet ideal: a young man who will reset the clocks and lift Russia out of its rut and put it back on course.

Bodrov’s film offers no easy answers, but it does offer hope. In today’s Russia, the individual is empowered as never before. Vanya is only one man, and one man cannot realistically bring peace to the world’s largest nation, but in this new atmosphere where a person can have an identity beyond that of just “Russian,” Prisoner of the Mountains boldly suggests that the next generation has the ball in its court.