Purely Joyful Movie!

Just perfect...

How sad is this?

This is a coming of age storyline that you've seen in one form or another for decades. It takes a truly unique voice to make yet another one worth watching.

This film captures the short moments between a mother and son in rural Russia, as she lays dying.I am so torn between being nice to the film or declaring it a test of patience. On one hand, the film is beautiful, with the sparse dialog capturing the essence of their feelings. There is really nothing to say, because everything that needs to be said is conveyed beyond words. The son shows so much care, love and patience towards his mother, that I think it is a celebration of unconditional love towards one's family. It also cruelly reminds me that I could be in a situation like this, stuck in a joyless place, having to take care of a very ill person. "Mat I Syn" is cruel reality.On the other hand, "Mat I Syn" moves really too slowly. Do I really need to watch a train passing by the horizon for over 1 minute? With my previous experience of "Telets" and "Aleksandra", I am so tempted to put "Mat I Syn" among them as a total bore.I guess one has to be in the right state of mind to appreciate this film. I surely see the beauty of it, but maybe I am not in the right state of mind.

Anyone who liked the fantastic visual aspects of the movie should know the work of the painter Caspar David Friedrich, Sokurov's reference. Google may help. Sokurov has an extraordinary ability in reproducing the atmosphere of this marvelous 19th century painter, a prime romantic. Friedrich, like Sokurov in this regard, "did not expect the general public to understand his point. Although Friedrich was personally deeply conservative and no critic of either society or religion, his understanding of the purpose of art made him an outsider. It was his fate to be, for most of his productive years, profoundly misunderstood. Never popular with the public, Friedrich continued to pursue "the expressive view of art," that is he continued to paint lovely pictures whose focus seemed too private, too personal to be accepted by others". Canvas and screen, twin souls.

The prior commentator went a little overboard. The film is surely not the greatest of all time. It is, perhaps, the greatest LOVE FILM of all time. The beauty of the landscape (note that this is Russia in deep summer -- deep winter would have produced a much different effect - but then the mother is dying, and the contrast between her physical state and the lushness of the fields and forests is necessary to keep one from being overwhelmed by sorrow ) is itself commentary on the beauty between these two. No pretty girl, no surging music, no reasons even for the love. It is just there. Titanic. Not tied to sex or gratitude. JUST EMOTION. The dialog is spare. There is no third person. Though everything moves very sluggishly, this fits perfectly. This is not a movie. It is a poem. Extremely fine too as an essay on what the core of love looks like.

After opening with a distorted tableau, Sokurov moves slowly into images of stones, grass; he's a naturalist who's addicted to nature; a humanist who's dedicated to the intimate. (The mother and son in his film are not characters or types or ciphers or "performances.") The camera movements are so beautifully slow that they're hard to describe -- imagine the precision of "Ordet" had it been made in color, those images still and hazy, like pastoral paintings with glowing hues of light. They're some of the purest images I've ever seen, comparable to "Barry Lyndon" and "McCabe & Mrs. Miller." What is so startling is that the color makes the film seem modern -- and such a hazy yet lucid color, Maddin-like in its Expressionism and schemes: fable-like and emotionally incestuous. It exists outside time, its only indicator a train within the film; existential emptiness represented visually. The film passes by quickly, with the perpetual wind that sounds like the ocean. It's as if the film is a progression of the most beautiful visions imaginable, the various images of death.It is something different -- art should be unique, if we're talking about art in the vein of Picasso, Shakespeare, and Bach, shouldn't it be an experience like no other? In fact, this could easily be compared to Tarkovsky, the most obvious comparison. But for me it feels more like Dreyer without the self-conscious dialogue. It couldn't be said to be complex -- it's two characters talking rather simply. But what it lacks in complexity it makes up for in singularity. (The images are at times so rich that it's almost comical -- is this a film set or not?) It's the kind of film that's easy to make fun of, intruding on the most personal moments of this pathetic-looking mother and her son who constantly speaks in a hushed tone -- you imagine one of those "Seinfeld" Village Voice parodies. It isn't emotional or intellectual; I don't even know if it's profound. But it's a masterpiece, plain and simple. 10/10