Review of Soviet Georgian Film Repentance

Completed 1983, Released 1987

Confession or Repentance (there was a flurry of indecision of the translation—”pokaianiya” in Russian as translated from Georgian) has Moscow cinemaphiles all abuzz. The intellectuals stammer on about symbols and significance, not-so-intellectuals and super-intellectuals yawn from incomprehension and cynicism respectively.

Our heroine, a tired-looking woman who bakes cakes in the shape of churches keeps exhuming the rigid, chalky corpse of the movie’s composite meanie (Hitler mustache, Mussolini’s love of balcony speeches, Beria’s glasses, Stalin’s birthplace) and returning him to his floozy daughter-in-law and jowly son. Her message to the judge and jury is that to bury him is to accept his sicko crimes (and sanctify him with religious ritual?). Our baggy-eyed blonde wearing a hat that looks like a wedding cake tells the court that this Satan sent her daddy to a labor camp for the so-called crime of thinking a technical institute inside a churcy kind of ruined the atmosphere, as well as the icons. The henchmen (costumed in medieval armor with lances) eventually come for Mama too, and half the population.

There is absolutely nothing innovative in this film technically. Arch villain and his mafioso son are played by the same actor. Mama is Directory Tengiz Abuladze’s daughter. It is riddled with symbols and between-the-lines messages, both heavy-handed and challengingly (annoyingly?) reminiscent of the death of a Certain Person 1954 years ago. That was easy, but the last scene (an old lady who asks if this road leads to the cathedral, is told there is no cathedral and answers what good is a road if it doesn’t lead to a cathedral) features a cameo appearance of a retired Georgian actress who suffered in the purges. That took homework.

When his movie travels west, it will, and should, have Soviet studies enthusiasts in dutiful attendance and they can dicker about its political importance and play “find the hidden pictures” with it. Theologians (professional or amateur) can argue over whose confession and repentance the movie concerns and is this the beginning of a religious revival in the land of atheism. For the average popcorn muncher, this will be a tedious two hours and twenty minutes.

(Special to Magic Bullet)

The following are excerpts from the journal of famed adventurer Clementon Feignsworth. Feignsworth is the man who, in 1927, discovered a connecting waterway between the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. This was proclaimed a great achievement until someone noticed that his discovery was actually the Panama Canal, already in operation since 1914. In these papers, we once again find Feignsworth amid the jungles of South America; this time in search of the legendary “Fountain of Fun,” whose waters are said to give the drinker quite a thrill. More excerpts would have been published had there not been an abundance of tobacco, but a shortage of cigarette papers on the journey.

July 3rd, 1934

We’ve set out from New York by boat. Our party numbers ten. This is the ideal amount since with any more, we’d stand too great a chance of drawing hostile attention in the wild; with any less, we’d be unable to get a group rate.

July 29

We’ve been set down at the mouth of the Amazon and are preparing to enter the jungle. This is a bold step for me, since I can still hear the laughter of my peers over that canal fiasco. But what of it? They laughed at Columbus and he went on to discover America. So what if he was actually looking for India.

August 2

These first few days have been hard going, compounded by my lack of familiarity with most of the crew. For the most part, they seem a generally qualified group; although one member, Johnson, causes me some uneasiness. He spent all of this afternoon humming incessantly. This I really wouldn’t have minded had I not found Chopin’s Funeral March to be rather inappropriate.

The one Godsend on the trip is, as always, Normandy. Good old Normandy, he’s been with me now for twenty years—and still as loyal as ever. He says, however, that if I didn’t own the mortgage on his family’s home, he’d be gone in a shot. Oh, that crazy sense of humor of his.

August 7

We’ve delved even farther into the jungle and, consequently, have come to depend more and more on our guide. His full name is Robert Thaddius Waite, but we of the company refer to him only as Scrappy Maxwell—although, admittedly, no one knows why. He’s a short, sturdy individual and a welcome addition to our team when sober.

August 12

Two weeks into the journey and still no sign as to whether we’re on the right track. Spirits are beginning to ebb. Johnson, once again, has begun with the Chopin. When I suggested to him to perhaps hum something lighter he refused; saying that Hello, Dolly wouldn’t be written for decades. I still haven’t the vaguest idea what he was talking about.

August 13

Finally, some insight into this strange character Johnson. He revealed today that shortly before our journey, he was a patient at the Button Home for the Criminally Insane and Massage Parlor. Although he wouldn’t give any specifics, he did make a casual remark about manslaughter charges. The expedition was then delayed for several hours as everyone stood around saying, “No, not with me. I thought he was with you.”

August 20

Our hopes were falsely raised today when we came upon a stream that we thought might’ve been the Fountain of Fun. Unfortunately, it proved to be a disappointment, since its water only made the drinker more youthful. It didn’t do much to quench their thirst, either. We’re now down to eight men as two are obligated to return home and attend kindergarten. Onward, ever onward. . .