Text
from
Susan Pack / 1995 / Taschen / ISBN 3-8228-8928-8 |
The Russian avant-garde film posters of the mid-1920’s to early 1930’s are unlike any film posters ever created. Although the period of artistic freedom in the Soviet Union was brief, these powerful, startling images remain among the most brilliant and imaginative posters ever conceived. The Russian film poster artists experimented with the same innovative cinematic techniques used in the films they were advertising, such as extreme close-ups, unusual angles and dramatic proportions. They montaged disparate elements, such as adding photography to lithography, and juxtaposed the action from one scene with a character from another. They colored human faces with vivid colors, elongated and distorted body shapes, gave animal bodies to humans and turned film credits into an integral part of the design. There were no rules, except to follow one's imagination. The 1917 Revolution changed life in Russia
politically, socially and artistically. Art became regarded as an important
force in shaping the future of the new State. Slogans such as ‘Art into
Life’ and ‘Art into Technology’ expressed the popular belief that art had
the power to transform lives on every level. It was a time of artistic
experimentation, a kind of spontaneous combustion caused by the charged
atmosphere and the radical changes in art and life. Diverse art styles, such as
Constructivism and Realism, Analytical Art and Proletarian Art, developed
simultaneously and, seemingly irreconcilably, together. Bold new directions in
art, including suprematism, non-objectivism and cubofuturism, emerged in this
fertile period of change. The pinnacle of the Russian avant-garde film poster occurred between 1925 and 1929. After 1930, artists faced increasing pressure to conform to governmental standards of acceptable art. The rise of Stalinism meant the demise of freedom of expression. To Stalin, all the arts, including film, had the sole function of delivering the official Party line. In
contrast to most film posters, which concentrate on a film's stars, the star of
a Russian avant-garde film poster is the artist's creativity and imagination.
Although some of these posters depict famous American film stars, such as Mary
Pickford, Douglas Fairbanks, Buster Keaton or Gloria Swanson, their presence is
secondary; the poster's value is determined by the quality of its graphic
design. Some Russian film posters depicting famous film stars are worth
relatively little because the posters are uninteresting artistically. Moreover,
some of the most valuable Russian film posters depict obscure films featuring no
known stars. As with all works of art, rarity and condition affect a poster's
value, however, the rarer a poster, the less condition is a factor. Although the
artists knew these posters were ephemeral, meant to be plastered on building
walls for only a few weeks, they nevertheless designed them with great style and
imagination. Many
people do not understand how a poster, of which tens of thousands were printed,
could be rare or valuable. The issue, however, is not how many posters were
printed, but how many survived. We know that 8,000 to 20,000 copies were printed
of most posters in this book because the size of the print run is often stated
in the bottom border of the poster. Yet today, these posters are extremely rare.
The number of known copies for most of the posters in this book can be counted
on one hand. This can be attributed to several factors. First, posters were not
meant to be saved. They were advertisements, not "works of art". As
soon as a film was to be shown in a theater, posters from the previous film were
discarded. Also, the posters were printed on poor-quality paper, which could not
stand the test of time. Further, because paper was in short supply, a sheet
containing unimportant or outdated information was often used again for other
purposes. If you look carefully at The Unwilling Twin (p. 27I) and Up on Kholt
(p. 275), you will see that each has an entirely different poster printed on its
back. The
first motion pictures to be seen in Russia were the pioneering works of the
Lumiere brothers, imported from France in 1894, as a part of many festivities
following the coronation of Tsar Nicholas II. The first film posters were purely
typographical announcements, but profit-motivated film promoters soon added
illustrations to their posters to lure more viewers. Within little more than a
decade, a thriving film industry was established. However, World War I and the
turmoil of the 1917 Revolution made film production and distribution
increasingly difficult. Famine, civil war and a foreign blockade prevented the
importation of foreign films, raw film, and equipment. The film industry came to
a virtual halt. In an attempt to aid the ailing film industry, Lenin nationalized it on August 27,1919, placing the industry under the control of Anatoly Lunacharsky, head of the People's Commissariat of Enlightenment. Lunacharsky propagated the production of agitational films (known as 'agit films') in the form of short (one reel) documentaries or rehearsed scenes intended to glorify the 1917 Revolution and promote the advantages of communism. The general belief was that the film industry had been the tool of profit-hungry capitalists before the Revolution; now it was to be a source of education and inspiration for the masses. In
1921, shortages of film material and equipment were eased by a partial return to
private enterprise (New Economic Policy, NEP) in order to avert economic
collapse, and in 1922 the government centralized control of the film industry by
creating Goskino – the State Cinema Enterprise. In 1926, Goskino was renamed
Sovkino. It was the most powerful of the national film organizations,
controlling the distribution of all foreign films and using the profits to
subsidize domestic film-making. It usually took between one and five years for a
foreign film to be released in Soviet theaters, as you will see from the
discrepancy between the original release date of a foreign film and the poster
date. One reason was that the Soviet censors often made changes to foreign
films. The Russian film titles were rarely simple translations; the American
film Dollar Down became Bride of the Sun (p. 238), Thee
Live Ghosts became In the London Twilight (p.110, 111) and Beasts
of Paradise became Cut off from the World (pp.44,45)· Also, film dialogue
was often changed to reflect a more politically correct viewpoint. Because the
films were silent, the censors could simply alter the titles which substituted
for spoken dialogue. Suddenly, a suicide could become a murder or, as in the
drastic case of Dr. Mabuse (pp. 246, 247) a street fight could become a
workers' revolt against capitalist oppression. As a result, film summaries from
different sources can differ widely, depending on which version the source
viewed. It
is interesting to discover which American actors became big stars in the Soviet
Union. From the number of Russian film posters featuring Richard Talmadge, one
would think that he was the greatest star of all. The reason for Talmadge's
dominant presence was largely a result of the marketing strategies of the
distributors. Films made by independent American producers like Richard Talmadge,
Charles Ray and Monty Banks, which played only in marginal theaters in the
United States (due to the tight control of major theater chains by the large
producers), enjoyed disproportionate success in the Soviet Union, especially
since they were also quite shallow standard fare guaranteed to have no political
message. As a result, some films that were barely noticed in their home country
occasioned the creation of superior Russian posters, often at odds with their
cinematic value. Like
everything else in the Soviet system, poster production was centralized and
state-controlled. Reklam Film was the Sovidno department which oversaw the
production of all film posters. Sovidno operated four movie studios and
twenty-two different production units, many of which had their own film poster
departments. Some of the production units, especially those in the outlying
republics like Uzbekistan and Georgia, had their own poster designers or
employed their set designers to create posters. However, all posters had to be
approved by Reklam Film. Yakov
Rukievsky (whose posters you will see in this book) was appointed to head Reklam
Film. He hired a group of exceptionally talented and imaginative young poster
artists, many of whom were recent graduates of VKHUTEMAS, the Higher State
Artistic and Technical Workshops. This group of creative young talent included
Georgii and Vladimir Stenberg, Nikolai Prusakov, Grigori Borisov, Mikhail
Dlugach, Alexander Naumov, Leonid Voronov, and Iosif Gerasimovich. From the very beginning, these young Soviet poster
artists threw themselves into their work with the same exuberant verve with
which the young Soviet directors approached their film assignments. Boldly, they
evolved their own paths, synthesizing the prevalent art trends of their day into
a style peculiarly their own, vibrant and profound, combining the depth of their
Russian heritage with their new-found Soviet fervor. They refused to succumb to
the easy glamour of Hollywood-style poster making in which almost all films were
advertised by showing an embrace between the hero and the heroine. Instead they
searched for innovative solutions which resulted in unique montages of images
designed to capture the attention and fire the imagination: bold lines,
intersecting planes, disembodied heads floating in space, split images,
compositions and collages, photomontage, eccentric colors, superimpositions,
unusual background patterns and
more. One
of the great innovations in Soviet film-making during this period was the
concept of montage. The French word "montage" simply means editing.
However, Soviet director Lev Kuleshov (The Happy Canary, pp. I46, I47, By
the Law, p. 222, The Death Ray, pp. 164·, 165) showed that
pieces of film could be cut and edited in such a way as to create a meaning not
present in any of the frames alone. Director Dziga Vertov pioneered the theory
of documentary montage. His first feature-length film, Kino-Glaz (Film
Eye, p. 34). made in 1924 had no actors, sets or scripts. Vertov filmed ordinary
people and unrehearsed events (often using hidden cameras), then manipulated the
footage in such an extraordinary way (using multiple exposures, foreshortening,
reverse motion, high-speed photography, microcinematography etc.) that the final
film bore little resemblance to the original footage. The heroes of Vertov's
films were not the actors but the film-making machinery and techniques. At the
end of his landmark film The Man with the Movie Camera, 1928 (pp.
193-195), the true star of the film, the camera, gets off its tripod and takes a
bow. The
mid-to late-1920’s were a period of extremely successful film-making in the
USSR. A number of Soviet film-makers and their films gained international fame:
Sergei Eisenstein for his Battleship Potemkin (pp. 166-171) and October
(pp. 103-107), Dziga Vertov for Kino-Glaz and One Sixth of the World
(pp. 202, 203), Alexander Dovzhenko for The Earth (p. 257) and Arsenal
(pp. 60, 61), Vsevolod Pudovidn for Mother (pp. 62, 63) and Storm over
Asia (The Heir of Genghis Khan, p. 278) and Friedrich Ermler for
Katka, the Paper Reinette (p. 285) and Fragment of an Empire
(pp. I42-I45). All these films were powerful portraits of the Revolution or of
the problems facing the young republic. However, the posters advertising these
films were virtually unknown outside the USSR. The
best-known and most celebrated of the early Soviet films was Eisenstein's Battleship
Potemkin (1925). Central to the film was the use of montage, but
Eisenstein's theories differed from Vertov's. Eisenstein believed in the
principle of montage of attractions, meaning that every moment the spectator
spends in the theater should be filled with the maximum shock and intensity. In
discovering new ways to achieve Eisenstein's vision, his cameraman, Edouard
Tisse, literally turned the traditional world of film-making upside down. To
film the famous slaughter on the Odessa steps, Tisse used several cameras
simultaneously. He strapped a hand-held camera to the waist of a circus-trained
assistant, then instructed him to run, jump and fall down the steps. Traditional
film-making techniques could not have achieved such a sense of fear, panic and
horror. The
financially successful Russian films were not the great epics like Battleship
Potemkin. In fact, Commissar Lunacharsky recounted that when he entered the
theater for the first run of Potemkin, he found the theater half-empty.
The most successful Russian films were American-style comedies like Miss Mend
(pp. 80-83), The Three Millions Trial (pp.190-191) and The Love Triangle
(pp. 188, 189)). Although viewed with contempt by the Soviet government,
American comedies, adventure films, westerns and serials were tolerated because
of their popularity with the public. It was the huge profits from foreign films
that financed Soviet film production. Names like Chaplin, Fairbanks, Pickford
and Lloyd were far more familiar to Soviet audiences than the greatest Soviet
cinema pioneers. Any
film made in the Soviet Union had to appease seemingly irreconcilable interests.
The government wanted films to educate the audience about Communist ideals, the
directors wanted to pursue their artistic visions, the audience wanted
entertainment and the film industry wanted a profit so that it could make more
films. In 1923, only twelve Soviet films were released and in the next year,
forty-one. However, by 1924 there were approximately 2,700 movie theaters in the
Soviet Union. Within the next three years, the total reached 7500 movie
theaters. To fill the ever-growing need for new films, newsreel production
increased dramatically. Every significant event was filmed. As the British film
historian Paul Rotha noted in The Film till Now (1930): “There is practically
no subject, whether scientific, geographical, ethnological, industrial,
military, naval, aeronautical or medical which has not been approached by Soviet
directors” (p. 173). What is fascinating is that the poster artists gave as
much time and attention to posters for these documentaries, such as The
Pencil (p. 12), as they gave to the posters for feature productions. The
most famous Soviet poster artists were Georgii and Vladimir Stenberg. One could
not walk down the streets of Moscow in the late 1920’s without seeing film
posters bearing the ubiquitous signature “2 Stenberg 2.” As collaborators,
the two brothers created about 300 film posters. In “A conversation with
Vladimir Stenberg”, (Art Journal, Fall 1981, p. 229) Vladimir Stenberg
explained to Alma Law that their first film poster, The Eyes of Love, had only
the signature ‘Sten’ because the two brothers did not know if they would
make any more film posters. They signed their second poster ‘Stenberg’ and
from then on they always used ‘2 Stenberg 2’. Vladimir Stenberg stated: “We
always worked together, beginning in 1907. We did everything together. It was
this way from childhood... We ate alike and followed the same work routine.
If... I caught a cold, he caught a cold too... When my brother and I were
working together, we even made a test. What color should we paint the
background? We would do it like this: he would write a note and I would write
one. I had no idea what he had written and he didn’t know what I had written.
So we would write these notes and then look, and they coincided! You think maybe
one was giving in to the other? No... there was no bargaining, nothing”.
Georgii Stenberg died in a car accident in 1933. The posters that Vladimir
designed after Georgii’s death were never able to match the brilliance of
their work as a team. The
Stenberg brothers had extensive knowledge of lithographic technique. Due to the
inability of printing facilities to ensure quality duplication of photography or
film stills for use in the posters, the Stenbergs devised a way to simulate
photographic likenesses. One often has to look very carefully at their posters
to determine whether an image is hand-drawn or photographic. Even though the
Stenbergs may have preferred their own method of creating photo-like images,
they were also very talented at photomontage. It is hard to imagine a more
effective use of photomontage than their poster for The Eleventh, in
which the Communist achievements of a decade are reflected in a pair of glasses
(pp. 124, 125). Continually
they discovered new ways to capture the dynamics of film on paper. In order to
convey the drama of the boxing ring, they show a boxer fighting upside down in The
Pounded Cutlet (pp. 226, 227), draw concentric circles that simulate the
reverberations of a blow to the head in The Boxer’s Bride (p. 224),
and use such sharp angles and contrasting proportions in The Punch (p.
223) that the viewer feels disoriented, almost as if he had been punched. As
Vladimir Stenberg stated during his conversation with Alma Law, “When we made
posters for the movies, everything was in motion because in films, everything
moves. Other artists worked in the center, they put something there and around
it was an empty margin. But with us, everything seems to be going somewhere”
(pp. 229, 230). The brothers particularly liked experimenting with unusual color
combinations. Their choice of color is thought-provoking when one considers that
they were advertising black and white films. The
Stenberg brothers often created two different posters for the same film. Their
two posters for The Three Millions Trial (pp. I90,191) could not be more
different in color and composition, yet both are very effective. The horizontal
version (p. I90), with its image broken up into many parts, creates the
impression of watching a film strip, while the close-up of the woman’s face
looming over the small cartoon images in the vertical poster (p. I9I) catapults
the viewer into the center of the action. Both of the Stenbergs’ posters for
the film Moulin Rouge feature a woman's face. One poster (p. 160) is
classically simple, all we see is the woman's veiled face in darkness; the other
(p. 161) places the viewer into the midst of Paris' night life with a seductive
woman, fancy night club and neon lights. The typography parallels the design:
beautifully simple in the first poster, and in the second poster the mixture of
letters in different typefaces and sizes creates the impression of walking down
a Paris street and being confronted by the flashing lights of a nightclub's
sign. At a time when people were accustomed to seeing a traditional white
background on posters, the dark blue/black background of these two Moulin
Rouge posters must have been particularly striking. Some
of the most imaginative and unusual film posters were created by Nikolai
Prusakov. In his brilliant poster for The Big Sorrow of a Small Woman
(p. I48, 149), Prusakov montages the face of a woman and the hat of an invisible
man over an imposing city scene. The man and woman are careening happily in
space, seated in a car missing most of its parts. Their car has eyes inside its
headlights, but it still runs over the title of the film, slightly scattering
the typography. In The Glass Eye (pp. 36, 37) Prusakov wreaks havoc on the
proportions of the couple. The man and woman seem to be dancing cheek to cheek
until one notices that the truncated man is actually dangling in mid-air, his
legs not long enough to reach the lap of his seated companion. The juxtaposition
of their bodies bears an amusing resemblance to a ventriloquist holding a dummy.
The photographer in the poster does not just take a picture; his body has become
a camera. The
integration of photography into the lithographic design, or photomontage, is one
of the hallmarks of Russian avant-garde posters. One of the wittiest examples of
photomontage is a poster Prusakov designed with Grigori Borisov, entitled Khaz-Push
(p. 48). The man racing on his bicycle is saying "I am rushing to see the
film Khaz-Push," while scenes from the film are already being shown
on his body and in the spokes of his bicycle's wheels. Prusakov
created some of his zaniest posters with Borisov. The Unwilling Twin (p.
271) is similar to the psychedelic San Francisco 'rock' posters of the 1960’s.
The artists create an incredible electricity between the seated twins,
graphically portrayed by simultaneously breaking up and overlapping the lines
that form their bodies. The result is that one feels their indivisible closeness
as well as their inevitable split. Law and Duty/Amok (pp. 216, 217) may
seem at first to be a poster gone amok, but Prusakov and Borisov have created an
effective balance between the swirling lines, extravagant colors and
black-and-white inset photography. Borisov also collaborated with another
artist, Pyotr Zhukov, to create spectacular posters. In The Living Corpse
(pp. 140, 141) Borisov and Zhukov use the pattern formed by the repetition of
the film title to weave the fabric of this man's life, from his suit to the
courtroom scene (pictured in the film still) in which he appears. The artists
create a haunting image of a 'corpse' whose only living', or non-typographical,
parts are his head and hand. His hand points accusingly at the viewer, emerging
from the typography with three-dimensional force. In The Doll with Millions
(pp. 120, 121), Borisov and Zhukov mesmerize the viewer with overlapping
designs that change their pattern wherever they come in contact with other
shapes. Trying to determine which designs are part of which people is similar to
solving a jigsaw puzzle. Like
Prusakov and Borisov, Alexander Naumov experimented with breaking down the
poster's surface into grids or vertical lines in order to create a
three-dimensional effect. He had already captured the glamorous, hypnotic,
larger-than-life quality of the silver screen in such posters as Bella Donna
(pp. 94, 95) and The Stolen Bride (p. 172) by the time he died in a
drowning accident at the age of 20. Although
Alexander Rodchenko designed comparatively few film posters, this artist and
photographer made an important contribution with his unique design sense and
innovative use of photomontage. In Battleship Potemkin (pp. 166-171),
Rodchenko lets the viewer spy on the action through a pair of binoculars that
form an elegant Constructivist design. Rodchenko's use of lime green and pink
for a battleship poster is unusual, as is his depiction of two events, one in
each binocular lens, which do not occur simultaneously in the film. An
important artist who preferred to concentrate on one central image was Anatoly
Belsky. He strived for maximum emotional impact. It is hard to forget the terror
on the face of the individual in The Gadfly (p. 233) or The Private
Life of Peter Vinograd (p. 159). Belsky's depiction of a young boy smoking a
pipe in The Communard's Pipe (p. 122, 123) is not only
attention-grabbing, it is also a very effective use of photomontage, with
various scenes from the film forming the pipe's smoke. The
most prolific of the film-poster artists was Mikhail Dlugach, who designed over
five hundred posters during his career. His split image of the judge and the
prisoner in Judge Reitan (p. 200) simultaneously portrays the two men as
'two sides of the same coin' and 'different as night and day'. Dlugach's
excellent color sense is particularly evident in his poster for Cement
(pp. 118, 119). For many who have so far seen this poster reproduced only in
black and white, the rich red color of the man's face is as unexpected as it is
powerful. Some
truly great posters of this period were created by artists whose names we do not
know. In the anonymous poster for Enthusiasm (pp. 260, 261 ) the typography does
not only add to the design, it becomes the design. Enthusiasm was Dziga
Vertov's first film with sound. He told the story of the coal miners of the Don
Basin accompanied by the natural sounds of the mines, such as the clashing
hammers and train whistles. The poster beautifully evokes these reverberating
sounds with its typography. The name of the film emanates outward like a sound
wave, in ever-increasing size. Like
the revolutionary films they advertised, the film posters of this period
developed into a new form of art. The poster artists used elements of graphic
design in radical new ways. They experimented with color, perspective and
proportion, juxtaposing images in startling ways, bearing no relation to
physical reality. Even film credits take on a new life. In both Niniche
(p. 279) and The Man with the Movie Camera (pp. I93-195), the Stenbergs
do not place the film credits unobtrusively on the side, but instead, make them
an integral part of the design, boldly encircling the main image. The
posters became a kind of 'moving picture'. In Smolyakovsky's The Conveyor of
Death (p. 96) one can almost feel the ra-ta-tat-tat of the machine gun. In
Dlugach's poster for The Electric Chair (p. 57), the zig-zag line cutting
through the character's neck could not be more "electric",
particularly when juxtaposed with the voltage meter and the woman's shocked
expression. The spiraling woman in the Stenbergs' The Man with the Movie
Camera is so effective, the viewer feels dizzy. The
quality of the posters is remarkable in view of the fact that the artists often
had to rush to meet nearly impossible deadlines. Both Vladimir Stenberg and
Mikhail Dlugach recalled that it was not unusual for them to see a film at three
o'clock in the afternoon and be required to present the completed poster by ten
o'clock the next morning. Further, the equipment for printing the posters was
falling apart and the technology was primitive. The only printing presses
available pre-dated the 1917 Revolution. Vladimir Stenberg recalled that some of
the presses were so shaky that practically everything was held together by
string. Many
times the artists had to create the posters without ever having seen the film.
Especially with foreign films, the artists often had to work from only a brief
summary of the film and publicity shots or a press kit from Hollywood. When one
considers that the poster artists assumed their work would be torn down and
thrown away after a few weeks, it is astonishing that they continued to strive
to maintain such a high standard. Clearly, these innovative flights of the
imagination do not deserve to be consigned to oblivion. In
1932, eight years after Lenin's death, Stalin decreed that the only officially
sanctioned type of art would be 'Socialist Realism'. Both the subject and the
artistic method were required to depict a realistic (we might call it an
idealistic) portrayal of Soviet life consistent with Communist values. Stalin's
decree marked the end of the period of avant-garde experimentation represented
by the posters in this book. He may have closed the window of creativity, but
not before it had illuminated history with some of the most brilliant posters
ever created. The imagination, wit and creativity exhibited in these film
posters have yet to be rivaled anywhere in the world. As you examine the film posters in this book, try to imagine Moscow or Leningrad in the 1920’s, the streets filled with people attending to their daily affairs. Imagine workers leaving their jobs at the end of the day, running to catch their streetcars. They would glance up and be confronted by these startling posters looming overhead. For a few brief moments they would escape their everyday routine, lured into the exciting world of the cinema. It is my hope that as you look at these film posters today, you, too, will be fascinated by their imagination and power. |