Andrei Rublev

Andrei Rublev is the definitive display of cinematic passion. This singular work of art is the essential piece on the very concept of art itself, on its necessity, on the means by which one crafts it, and most importantly, on the vices which reflect on and are reflected by the artist. Andrei Rublev is not a fifteenth century medieval icon painter. He is an idea, a phantom of reality, a caricature of the artist and of the Christian and of the Russian. The innate turmoil of existence is reflected in this one man; a man caught between his love for God and his love for people, the corrupted institutionalisation of the church and the fundamental bestial ugliness of man drilling a void between artistic integrity and artistic necessity, and dragging him into the pits of despair and cynicism, such is the sickness which befell many of his contemporaries. Kirill, the talentless monk whose contemptuous jealousy and arrogant cynicism leads him to not unjustly berate his church, returning after years of woe and suffering a sickened dying man to pitifully beg forgiveness at the feet of Rublev. Theophanes, an aged cynic despite his talent, who sees only vanity and baseness in every action of man, dying only with a perspective of nihilism and bitter hatred for our petty people. Foma, a prospective artist who hinders himself with gluttonous materialism and shallow pretence. Durochka, a symbol of simplicity corrupted by her environment, looked upon hopelessly by Rublev. Two warring brothers, prepared to massacre an entire populous for the sake of a trifle power exchange. Danila, a monk and an icon painter in his own right who is neither cynical nor naïve, merely practical, somewhat silently reserved in his acceptance of this sin-ridden earthly realm. A tribe of pagans who challenge the very foundations of Rublev’s beliefs, not only on a spiritual level but on a purely moralistic level, despite their immediate and apparent sin. In the character of Andrei Rublev, though, we are given a reason to create art despite all of this. For his human compassion supersedes all. And when his compassion is ebbed away at, when his environment erodes his empathy, it takes but a mere child, a bell-maker weeping before their creation, being comforted by Rublev, to restore our faith in art. We must create art, because not to create art is not to fight, and not to embrace the gift of craft-worthy hands is to dismiss the abject beauty which lies before us in favour of wilful, blinding cynicism. Yes, art exists to contextualise suffering, but it also exists to extract beauty from things which are genuinely benevolent. Andrei Rublev is a celebration of art, but by extension it is a celebration of man’s very nature. All of the fire and blood and hatred and doubt that has persisted for three hours throughout the film manifests in the subtle, vibrant strokes of his icons, seeking and finding both its beauty, and beauty which exists in spite of the blood and fire and hatred and doubt. At the end of the day, the events of the film and the ending montage are not actually relevant to each other. Tarkovsky has only linked this one particular entirely false and fictitious story to these icons of the literally millions that could exist otherwise. Any time I find myself troubled by reflections on art, any time I think to myself that this is all finite and facile in the face of all the hurt, which happens often, I need only lend three hours of my time to the great Andrei Tarkovsky to prove me otherwise. Poetry in motion.