Death Day: The Apology of Sergei Eisenstein

Table of Contents

Author’s Preface

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

About the Author

Journals by John Passfield

Planning Notebooks by John Passfield

Author’s Preface

This novel, Death Day, is an exploration of the plight of the artist in a repressive society, and the strategies that such artists devise in order to ensure their own physical survival and the continuation of their ability to create art under brutal social conditions.

The decade of the 1930s, in Soviet Russia, is a time of public accusations, confessions, convictions and executions of people in all walks of life. For some, the crime is opposition to the rulers of the Communist state; for others—many of them loyal Communists—the crime of which they are accused is simply the independence of their ideas. On March 19, 1937, world-renowned Soviet film-maker, Sergei Eisenstein appears before the All-Union Creative Conference of Workers in Soviet Cinematography, accused of having failed to create films which reflect the social and political orthodoxy of the Stalinist state.

While reeling from the unrelenting barrage of questions, accusations and threats, the mind of Sergei Eisenstein is flooded by the images of his film-making career as he tries to formulate a positive response to his precarious situation. He recalls his triumphant creation of the film, Battleship Potemkin, in the heady post-Revolutionary days when all Communist artists were invited to contribute their ideas and energy to the creation of a bold, new society; his disappointing encounter with the Capitalist alternative, amidst the film-making culture of Hollywood during the Great Depression; and his anguish over how the euphoria of the post-1917 Russian Revolution has been supplanted by a brutally-repressive communist society in which every thought and word is monitored for orthodoxy by the Stalinist Soviet bureaucracy.

As Sergei Eisesnstein faces the present-moment crisis of the danger of losing his career, and perhaps his life, he searches for a way out of his dilemma. Realizing that his creativity is his most valuable resource, he reviews two experiences in his past life and career:

—the Best of Times: the making of his film, Battleship Potemkin, which was a time of harmony in his life, his film-making career and his relationship with his society; and

—the Worst of Times: the attempt to make his eventually-aborted film, Que Viva Mexico, when all was disharmony in his life, his career and his society.

Now he faces a situation in which he is at odds with his society, which has become brutally repressive and which seeks to stifle art in the name of propaganda and threatens to end his artistic career.

Aware that he is facing the end of his film-making career—and possibly death—Sergei Eisenstein struggles frantically to find a way out of a dilemma which is faced by all artists in totalitarian states: how to reconcile one’s freedom of imagination and creativity with the conformity to the artistically-stifling orthodoxy which is demanded by the rulers of society? Finally—with thoughts of the cries of the oppressed in all walks of life providing a counter-voice to the presence of the brutal threats of his accusers—Sergei Eisenstein seizes upon an audacious idea, one that he hopes will convince the bureaucrats of Soviet cinema to grant him permission to make just one more film.

But the plan has a double aspect: it is a proposal for a film which he would like to make, but what of the imagery of which this film would be composed? Although the mind of Sergei Eisenstein is aware of his dilemma of the present-moment, he is not necessarily aware of the implications of his own thoughts. All of the action of the novel takes place in the preconscious mind of the main character. The constant bombardment of imagery, from his present, his past and his potential future, is constantly being processed—scrutinized, evaluated and arranged into patterns of imagery—in an attempt to understand what is happening to him and to decide what to do about it. It is fascinating to speculate concerning at what levels of consciousness he is aware of the various aspects of the imagery of his ideas.

The text of the novel is the record of the preconscious thought of Sergei Eisenstein as he stands at the lectern at the Bolshoi Theatre and reviews his entire life and career. Preconscious thought is a combination of layers of thought from the most conscious thought to the most subconscious thought, with many layers of consciousness and subconsciousness operating in concert and in contrast.

I am interested in capturing contemporary life, and the historical roots of contemporary life, in the form of the novel. Contemporary man is bombarded with imagery from more sources than at any time in the past. It is the task of the protagonist of this novel to process this bombardment of images and, by selection and arrangement, to form the images of his experience into patterns which will reveal a meaning which will allow him to live intelligently and compassionately. Form is meaning and I am exploring ways in which the novel can be made to speak in the voices of our time. This novel uses techniques derived from our own contemporary sources of the imagery and information with which we do our thinking—such as film, radio and television, by way of press conferences, interviews and news reports—as a means of creating an exploration of the forces which have contributed to the society in which we all live.

While writing this novel, I kept a planning notebook and a reflective journal. The three companion books—the novel, Death Day; the journal, The Making of Death Day; and the planning notebook, Planning Death Day—are the eleventh installment is a series which traces the making of each novel and the development of my theory of the novel as an art-form. More information about the series of novels, journals and planning notebooks can be found at www.johnpassfield.ca The published journals and planning notebooks are available for free download at that source.

John Passfield

Cayuga, Ontario

April, 2011

Chapter 1

Apology 1

March 19, 1937

An early-morning walk through the dark streets of Moscow.

Footsteps crunching in the snow. A faint mist around the street lamps. On my way to the All-Union Creative Conference of Workers in Soviet Cinematography.

On my way to present my speech of capitulation.

A routine start to a dreaded day.

Startled dead-awake by frightening thoughts, after a restless night spent tossing to and fro.

A dark day in Moscow.

Shuffling into my slippers and ruffling up my hair and off to wash. Mumbling bits of phrases that I have spent the long hours of the night in scribbling-in and scribbling-out of my speech of apology.

"I greet you, comrades and fellow workers of the Soviet cinematography industry. As is well-known, on March 17, 1937, the production of my film, Bezhin Meadow, was ordered to be discontinued by the Central Direction of Soviet Cinematography. Since that time, much has been said about my attitude towards the decision, including charges that I disagreed with the decision and even that I wished to challenge the authority and rightness of Comrade Shumyatsky, the Director of the Soviet Film Office, to judge my work."

When has the artist ever been free?

When has the artist ever been granted the independence that you have sought?

Why would an artist want to be free to pursue his own purposes?

Breakfast on a morning on which I have no taste for food. Food forced on a stomach which has no appetite. An egg, a piece of toast, a cup of tea. The routine which I have been following day after day.

A breakfast without taste and a conversation with my housekeeper without thought.

No, I cannot be sure whether I will be here tonight for supper. I cannot predict what the rest of this day will bring.

Staring without interest at my bookcases. A disinclination, this day, for the morning newspaper. Perhaps a last glance at my speech before I leave.

Further, in the press and elsewhere, it has been said that I have failed to reject my former aesthetic principles; have broken my promise to work along the lines of social realism; and misused my creative opportunities and the vast financial resources which were entrusted to me. It has been further said that I have placed too great a faith in my own scholastic profundities and have produced a film of harmful formalistic exercises.

Comrade Eisenstein has failed to analyze successfully the decisive stages of the socialist revolution.

Comrade Eisenstein has allowed himself to be side-tracked by formalistic experimentation.

Comrade Eisenstein left this country during a crucial period in the development of the Soviet film industry.

Stuffing papers into my briefcase and fumbling with the buckle of the leather strap. Wondering whether there is something among my things that I have forgotten to pack.

Walking slowly, like a sleep-walker, through the streets of Moscow.

Anticipating my dreaded day. A dreaded day which has been waiting patiently for me, with no expression on its face whatsoever.

It is March and the days are still quite short.

An oxcart laden with goods. The flickering lights of a squealing tram. An early-morning light in a government office window. Figures emerging out of the shadows. Dark alleys spilling specters onto Red Square.

Thinking of my speech as I walk along.

Furthermore, Comrades, I have been accused of secretiveness, overweening conceit, inability to cooperate with others, unwillingness to recognize the accomplishments of colleagues, and aloofness from Soviet reality and the gigantic process which is unfolding all around me.

What would an artist do with such freedoms as you have demanded?

Why would an artist turn his back on his obligations to his society?

Why would an artist want to make films that no one would wish to see?

I hear voices in the dark when I try to sleep. Voices that terrorize my consciousness. Voices which insist that I listen to an endless roll-call of names.

Solomon Mikhailovich Kharin: an economist; arrested March 28, 1936; the charge was counter-revolutionary and terrorist activities; sentenced to death November 4, 1936; shot to death the same day.

Dionis Petushkov: a monk; arrested February 16, 1931; the charge was anti-Soviet activity; sentenced to death June 6, 1931; shot four days later.

Dimitry Alexandrovich Karpovich: an engineer; arrested December 18, 1936; the charge was espionage; sentenced to death August 4, 1936; shot the same day.

Footsteps crunching near me in the snow.

Am I being watched? I wouldn’t think so. What would be the purpose? They will hear everything that I have to say within a matter of minutes, or an hour, at best. They must know that I have nothing that I can hide.

I have learned to answer the telephone as little as possible. I have learned not to banter with my colleagues. I have learned to shy away from those who wish to share their thoughts with me about the state of Soviet society. I have learned to keep my thoughts to myself.

A life of rumours, whispers, friendly warnings. Pondering the lines between the lines in the daily newspapers. The anxiety and uncertainty of the precarious life.

Living in a society in which one is constantly compelled to explain one’s every thought and deed.

Comrades, I welcome the opportunity to appear at this conference and to address the charges which have been made against me as to having been possessed of the intellectual’s quixotic illusion that revolutionary work can be done individually, in segregation from the collective, in complete defiance of the general trend.

Comrade Eisenstein has failed to use his privileged position as a film-maker to promote the policies of the Party and the government.

Comrade Eisenstein has failed to give the individual actor the prominence that Soviet film policy has directed that he should have.

Comrade Eisenstein has failed to make his films true examples of Soviet realism.

I miss the old days when I was working with my team.

Sitting with Tisse and Alexandrov in the early morning light as it comes through the windows of the hotel dining room in Odessa. Pouring over our notes and diagrams for our film of the battleship Potemkin. Sipping our cups of tea. Pointing out opportunities and pitfalls in the scenes that we are going to film today.

These are the memories that I cling to more and more.

My Potemkin film has been dismissed as failing to connect with the socialist offensive of the proletariat. My Mexican film has been clipped by barbarians into tiny pieces. Sold as travelogues for coins in the market place. My aborted project: Sutter’s Gold, my aborted project: An American Tragedy, my aborted project: Que Viva Mexico.

The termination of each of my film projects has given me a tremendous shock. Creativity makes me vulnerable. I am better off behind the protection of my classroom walls.

Most of you who are in attendance today are aware of my personal history, comrades, and you are therefore aware, I am sure, that I came to my artistic maturity during a period in which artists in all disciplines seized with fervor upon the new ideas which were sweeping across our society without reservation, not the least of which is the Revolutionary belief in the acceptance of the constructive criticism of one’s colleagues as the cornerstone of artistic and social advancement.

Can you not root out these offenses from your character?

Can you not uproot the vestiges of formalism from your consciousness?

Can you not create an attractive image of the Revolution in your films?

My work at the Institute of Cinematography sways as tenuously in the breeze as a house of cards. My film students are eager to take their places in the bureaucracy of the Soviet film collective. I am writing books of film theory that will probably never see the light of day.

AMy current film project, Bezhin Meadow, has been discontinued as a misuse of my creative opportunities. It is possible that the film will be destroyed.

It is possible that I will never be allowed to make another film.

I am thirty-nine years old, but I feel like an old, old man. I might as well die now. There is nothing for me to live for. The thing that I have lived for and put everything into is about to be taken away. I have never had any life except my work.

In the spirit of the Revolution, comrades, I welcome the opportunity to say to you today that I believe myself to be guilty as charged, and I welcome the opportunity to appear before you—a tribunal of my colleagues—to confess my faults and to ask you to believe me when I say that I will reform my ways and work diligently in future to avoid making the same mistakes of which I have admittedly been guilty in the past.

Why should a person such as yourself be allowed to defend the indefensible? Perhaps you should not be allowed to speak at all.

The state of Soviet society. Deciphering the stories between the lines. The newspaper pages rustling softly in the reading room.

These people are traitors, self-confessed, condemned as enemies of the Party and the state by the words of their own poisonous lips.

Poison from the lips of traitors. So difficult to figure out the truth.

Do I dare allow myself to daydream about the making of another film?

Do I dare allow myself to imagine waking up in the morning with my head brimming with ideas, slipping out of bed and putting my feet on the cold, bracing floor, knowing that Tisse and Alexandrov and I will be out by dawn on the wind-swept plain, setting up the first camera-angle while the extras stamp their feet and shiver and yawn?

Do I dare to dream that I will be allowed to make another film?

Why torture myself with daydreams? Perhaps it would be better if I allow all such thoughts of creative work to remain suppressed.

Arrival at the Bolshoi Theatre. The sight of the premiere of my Potemkin film, only twelve short years ago. The portico looming in the dark of a Moscow morning, with its horse-drawn chariot of Apollo, the god of the arts.

Twelve years ago, I stood on the Bolshoi stage and bowed as the auditorium shook with wave after wave of tumultuous applause.

I am here before my colleagues. The doorman greets me in the shadows. Only one dim bulb brings light to the cavernous lobby. The air is wet and cold. I must find my way to the auditorium in the semi-dark.

Chapter 2

Battleship Potemkin 1

1925

Standing on the stage of the Bolshoi Theatre. Remembering what it was like to make my film, Battleship Potemkin.

Overwhelmed by the reception. Shouts of approval from the audience. Crescendos of applause. How wonderful is the realization of a dream.

The exhilaration of the pursuit of the film-idea.

Standing, that day, in the vestibule of my boarding house with a letter in my hand. Elated at the opportunity to create a work of art. To be chosen as the director of the new film—The Year 1905—is wonderful news. The film is being commissioned by the Jubilee Committee as a celebration of the 20th anniversary of the 1905 Revolution.

I feel that I am more than ready for such an enterprise.

The warmth of the film-studio offices. The cheerful greetings of the clerks. Signing a contract with the First Studio of Goskino. Eager to get to work. A pleasant conversation with Comrade Kapachinsky, the Leningrad Director of Films.

Comrade Lenin has referred to film as by far the most important of all the arts.

Nine months to make the film. Two conditions to which I cheerfully agree: that the film should have an optimistic ending; and that one of the major episodes should be finished by December 20th of this year.

Meeting with Comrade Nina Ferdinandovna Agadzhanova-Shutko, who is working on research for the film. She was a participator and an eye-witness