The Red and the White

It's often said (most famously by Francois Truffaut) that there's no such thing as an antiwar film. The idea being that by depicting combat in an entertaining fashion, antiwar movies negate their message. This is true enough with commercial cinema, which disingenuously grafts noble-sounding speeches on top of exciting action (Platoon anyone?). On the other hand, it's hard to imagine All Quiet on the Western Front, Come and See or Gallipoli inspiring anyone to enlist.

Miklos Jancso's The Red and the White (1967) is a remarkable subversion. Commissioned to commemorate the 50th anniversary of the Russian Revolution, Hungarian director Jancso instead crafted an avant garde journey through hell. It's a formless but hypnotic experience, showing Russia's Civil War as a barbaric descent into madness.

Russia's Civil War between the Communist Reds and reactionary Whites (aided by foreign invaders) comes to a small village on the Volga River. Patrols from both sides arrive, surprising and overwhelming each other in a random series of encounters, with civilians caught in the middle. Eventually the battle lines harden: a small patrol of Reds survives an air raid and captures White headquarters at an abandoned monastery. But White reinforcements, including Hungarian troops, soon bear down on the Bolsheviks.

By any standard, except those of the Classic Hollywood Narrative, The Red and the White is an incredible work. The picturesque Volga becomes a monstrous No Man's Land where no one's safe from the depredations of either army. The war's ideological origins provide an excuse for wanton killing. Besides the Russians, Hungarians serve on both sides of the conflict; that country went through its own abortive revolution in 1918, when Admiral Horthy's reactionaries crushed Bela Kun's Bolsheviks. The only clear distinction is the uniforms: shabby gray for the Reds, striking black for the Whites.

In presentation, Red functions as a rebuke to Soviet realism. Jancso follows Eisenstein et al in his focus on masses over individuals, but substitutes extreme long takes in medium shot for close-ups and kinetic edits. Photographer Tamlas Samlo achieves depth of field that Gregg Toland and Freddie Young could only dream about: as White troops assemble nurses for execution, scouts ride in front of the camera while mounted men assemble across the river. That's not to mention the finale, where extreme long shots reveal a huge White army massing in the distance. Only Spartacus compares in its presentation.

Jancso infuriated his producers: instead of rousing Communist agitprop, they received a nihilistic condemnation of conflict. The violence gradually escalates in scale: POWs are massacred, women raped, property destroyed. The battles are confused melees: one set piece sees a Red patrol decimated by swooping airplanes, leaving only their riderless horses. Things end on a tragic note, when surviving Bolsheviks confront the entire White Army. Hopelessly outnumbered, they cheerily sing La Marseillaise before being slain in one massed volley. It's the perfect coda to a remarkably bleak, affecting film.