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| Pussy Riot: A Punk Prayer – first look review | Pussy Riot: A Punk Prayer – first look review |
| (2 months later) | |
| The best translation of the word "pussy", explains a man halfway through the opening night film of Sheffield Doc/Fest, is "deranged vagina". Other definitions include "kitten" and "uterus". He pussyfoots round actually saying the word, this man, sweaty in woolly beard and vast hat and "Orthodoxy or Death" T-shirt, and, when he does, it's impossible not to recall Sean Connery. Vowels, it turns out, can sound Scottish, said with a Russian accent. | The best translation of the word "pussy", explains a man halfway through the opening night film of Sheffield Doc/Fest, is "deranged vagina". Other definitions include "kitten" and "uterus". He pussyfoots round actually saying the word, this man, sweaty in woolly beard and vast hat and "Orthodoxy or Death" T-shirt, and, when he does, it's impossible not to recall Sean Connery. Vowels, it turns out, can sound Scottish, said with a Russian accent. |
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| One wouldn't have thought there was a lot more to goggle at in the saga of the feminist punk collective, three members of which were sentenced to two years in penal camps after a 40-second performance in Moscow's Cathedral of Christ the Saviour in February 2012. And yet directors Mike Lerner and Maxim Pozdorovkin spike their summary with enough shocks to make even the well-acquainted gulp. | One wouldn't have thought there was a lot more to goggle at in the saga of the feminist punk collective, three members of which were sentenced to two years in penal camps after a 40-second performance in Moscow's Cathedral of Christ the Saviour in February 2012. And yet directors Mike Lerner and Maxim Pozdorovkin spike their summary with enough shocks to make even the well-acquainted gulp. |
| First, it has to be said, is the amateurism of the performance itself: an awful, attention-hustling racket, musically horrible, lyrically adolescent; poetry-free provocation. It's an ill-planned shambles – they've barely had time to strap on their guitars, let alone belt out the chorus ("Shit! Shit! It's God shit!") before they're hustled off by security guards. The second is the naivety of the band. These are kids, mostly in their early 20s, genuinely inspired by the Spice Girls, caught short by the hardline nature of the regime they were protesting against. | First, it has to be said, is the amateurism of the performance itself: an awful, attention-hustling racket, musically horrible, lyrically adolescent; poetry-free provocation. It's an ill-planned shambles – they've barely had time to strap on their guitars, let alone belt out the chorus ("Shit! Shit! It's God shit!") before they're hustled off by security guards. The second is the naivety of the band. These are kids, mostly in their early 20s, genuinely inspired by the Spice Girls, caught short by the hardline nature of the regime they were protesting against. |
| The regime raises its eyebrows; initial questions levelled by police at the women include whether they dream of getting married and having children, but the film also takes care to lay bare the broader cultural background. The orthodox men defame the Pussy Rioters as witches; their female counterparts despair of the girls' behaviour as unpatriotic vulgarity: "It's like someone walked into the heart of Russia and took a shit." Parallels peddled by the band between their experience and the Stalinist showtrials are then illustrated with archive footage, to ambiguous effect. | The regime raises its eyebrows; initial questions levelled by police at the women include whether they dream of getting married and having children, but the film also takes care to lay bare the broader cultural background. The orthodox men defame the Pussy Rioters as witches; their female counterparts despair of the girls' behaviour as unpatriotic vulgarity: "It's like someone walked into the heart of Russia and took a shit." Parallels peddled by the band between their experience and the Stalinist showtrials are then illustrated with archive footage, to ambiguous effect. |
| Yet the main surprise is the increasing poise of the young women themselves. Initially it's superficial – "I always look good," says the most telegenic, in reply to a compliment from her husband, the other side of the courtroom glass – but as the case proceeds and its implications for them, their families, and for Putin's image outside Russia, percolate down, so they wise up. They admit their failings – we're not saying we're ethically flawless, says one – and express genuine contrition for offence caused. By the end, they are speaking with enormous precision and passion, an intellectual rigour miles superior to the work that landed them in trouble in the first place. Being on the receiving end of Putin's wrath turns out to be something of a public-speaking boot camp. | Yet the main surprise is the increasing poise of the young women themselves. Initially it's superficial – "I always look good," says the most telegenic, in reply to a compliment from her husband, the other side of the courtroom glass – but as the case proceeds and its implications for them, their families, and for Putin's image outside Russia, percolate down, so they wise up. They admit their failings – we're not saying we're ethically flawless, says one – and express genuine contrition for offence caused. By the end, they are speaking with enormous precision and passion, an intellectual rigour miles superior to the work that landed them in trouble in the first place. Being on the receiving end of Putin's wrath turns out to be something of a public-speaking boot camp. |
| The 90-minute documentary – granted theatrical release in the UK in a few weeks, but a HBO number in the US – is, have no doubt, modulated propaganda, that leaves you in no doubt which hymnbook you're supposed to sing from. Putin is seen drifting smoothly through corridors as scared lackeys salute; the girls are inevitably only shown in captivity, with sympathetic choruses from their parents. Difficult questions – about the young children of two of the three – are skirted around, and the spotlight stays with the key trio. Of the eight other members of the troupe, we hear and see nothing. | The 90-minute documentary – granted theatrical release in the UK in a few weeks, but a HBO number in the US – is, have no doubt, modulated propaganda, that leaves you in no doubt which hymnbook you're supposed to sing from. Putin is seen drifting smoothly through corridors as scared lackeys salute; the girls are inevitably only shown in captivity, with sympathetic choruses from their parents. Difficult questions – about the young children of two of the three – are skirted around, and the spotlight stays with the key trio. Of the eight other members of the troupe, we hear and see nothing. |
| "Art is not a mirror to reflect the world, but a hammer with which to shape it," says the opening quote, from poet Vladimir Mayakovsky. A Punk Prayer holds up a glass that doesn't need to be quite so flattering, nor so selective, to hold our attention. | "Art is not a mirror to reflect the world, but a hammer with which to shape it," says the opening quote, from poet Vladimir Mayakovsky. A Punk Prayer holds up a glass that doesn't need to be quite so flattering, nor so selective, to hold our attention. |
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