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Director Andrei Konchalovsky: 'Forget freedom – wars and plagues make the best art' Andrei Konchalovsky: 'Forget freedom – wars and plagues make the best art'
(about 14 hours later)
Andrei Konchalovsky has only just checked in when I meet him, but he has already commandeered the best seat in the lounge of the Connaught, one of London's swankiest hotels. The 76-year-old Russian director, who in the 1980s enjoyed a productive but brief spell in the Hollywood spotlight, is evidently used to getting his own way.Andrei Konchalovsky has only just checked in when I meet him, but he has already commandeered the best seat in the lounge of the Connaught, one of London's swankiest hotels. The 76-year-old Russian director, who in the 1980s enjoyed a productive but brief spell in the Hollywood spotlight, is evidently used to getting his own way.
Konchalovsky is here because two Chekhov productions he directed at Moscow's Mossovet theatre – Uncle Vanya and Three Sisters – are about to open in the West End as part of the Anglo-Russian year of culture. This may not be the most propitious moment for such a cultural exchange, but he is unfazed. "It's nothing new for me," he says. "Just a normal tug of war between west and east."Konchalovsky is here because two Chekhov productions he directed at Moscow's Mossovet theatre – Uncle Vanya and Three Sisters – are about to open in the West End as part of the Anglo-Russian year of culture. This may not be the most propitious moment for such a cultural exchange, but he is unfazed. "It's nothing new for me," he says. "Just a normal tug of war between west and east."
The year of culture is supposed to be about bringing Russia and the UK together, but Konchalovsky doesn't buy the line that art can heal political differences. "It can help politics when politics are ready to be changed," he says. "Not before. Sometimes a film can make a revolution if a revolution is ready to be made." They are, he says, different worlds that operate on different timescales. "Artists are trying to discover what life is about. Politicians already know." Or think they know.The year of culture is supposed to be about bringing Russia and the UK together, but Konchalovsky doesn't buy the line that art can heal political differences. "It can help politics when politics are ready to be changed," he says. "Not before. Sometimes a film can make a revolution if a revolution is ready to be made." They are, he says, different worlds that operate on different timescales. "Artists are trying to discover what life is about. Politicians already know." Or think they know.
Born into a cultured family in 1937 (his father was a writer who penned the Soviet national anthem), Konchalovsky trained as a pianist before embarking on a directing career in the Soviet Union. He collaborated with Russian film giant Andrei Tarkovsky and co-scripted Andrei Rublev – Tarkovsky's 1966 epic about the 15th-century painter, hailed by some as the best arthouse movie ever – before establishing himself as a director in his own right. He then wowed Hollywood with Runaway Train, Duet for One and Shy People, before hitting the buffers at the end of the 1980s with Tango & Cash and Homer and Eddie.Born into a cultured family in 1937 (his father was a writer who penned the Soviet national anthem), Konchalovsky trained as a pianist before embarking on a directing career in the Soviet Union. He collaborated with Russian film giant Andrei Tarkovsky and co-scripted Andrei Rublev – Tarkovsky's 1966 epic about the 15th-century painter, hailed by some as the best arthouse movie ever – before establishing himself as a director in his own right. He then wowed Hollywood with Runaway Train, Duet for One and Shy People, before hitting the buffers at the end of the 1980s with Tango & Cash and Homer and Eddie.
He is one of those rare directors, like Ingmar Bergman and Patrice Chéreau, who moves easily between film, theatre and opera. What does he think the big differences are? "Theatre you can enjoy if you are blind," he says. "Cinema you can enjoy if you are deaf. That's why there were great silent movies. The more I work in theatre and opera, the more I understand how different they are from cinema. That's why I'm doing it. I'm trying to explore something that is completely foreign for film-makers. Critics often write, 'We see Konchalovsky's cinematic vision in theatre.' It's ridiculous, it's rubbish. You express yourself completely differently." In opera, at least, you can express yourself more cinematically, I suggest. "No," he says emphatically. "Opera is much closer to circus than to cinema."He is one of those rare directors, like Ingmar Bergman and Patrice Chéreau, who moves easily between film, theatre and opera. What does he think the big differences are? "Theatre you can enjoy if you are blind," he says. "Cinema you can enjoy if you are deaf. That's why there were great silent movies. The more I work in theatre and opera, the more I understand how different they are from cinema. That's why I'm doing it. I'm trying to explore something that is completely foreign for film-makers. Critics often write, 'We see Konchalovsky's cinematic vision in theatre.' It's ridiculous, it's rubbish. You express yourself completely differently." In opera, at least, you can express yourself more cinematically, I suggest. "No," he says emphatically. "Opera is much closer to circus than to cinema."
The cosmopolitan, much-married Konchalovsky (his fifth wife, actor and TV presenter Julia Vysotskaya, stars in his two Russian-language Chekhov productions) has a talent for aphorisms, even in what must be his third language after Russian and French. He stresses his European-ness, unlike his younger brother and fellow director Nikita Mikhalkov, whose 1994 film Burnt By the Sun, about a Red Army officer caught up in Stalin's Great Purge, won the foreign language Oscar. Mikhalkov is overtly political, a Russian nationalist and a strong supporter of Putin, while Konchalovsky is a natural rebel, a believer in art for art's sake.The cosmopolitan, much-married Konchalovsky (his fifth wife, actor and TV presenter Julia Vysotskaya, stars in his two Russian-language Chekhov productions) has a talent for aphorisms, even in what must be his third language after Russian and French. He stresses his European-ness, unlike his younger brother and fellow director Nikita Mikhalkov, whose 1994 film Burnt By the Sun, about a Red Army officer caught up in Stalin's Great Purge, won the foreign language Oscar. Mikhalkov is overtly political, a Russian nationalist and a strong supporter of Putin, while Konchalovsky is a natural rebel, a believer in art for art's sake.
"The basis for all my activities is curiosity," he says, adding that he has just shot a film "for myself without money" and found he was still learning. "Only now do I start to understand a little more about film-making. Only when you start to work for yourself, and in solitude, do you learn certain secrets. Otherwise you have to fulfil expectations." He is dismissive of commercial movie-making. "The market moves towards entertainment, but art is closer to contemplation.""The basis for all my activities is curiosity," he says, adding that he has just shot a film "for myself without money" and found he was still learning. "Only now do I start to understand a little more about film-making. Only when you start to work for yourself, and in solitude, do you learn certain secrets. Otherwise you have to fulfil expectations." He is dismissive of commercial movie-making. "The market moves towards entertainment, but art is closer to contemplation."
This may be a way of rationalising recent failures: his last major film, The Nutcracker in 3D, made with Hungarian backing in 2009 for $90m, was a commercial and critical turkey. The US critic Roger Ebert called it "one of those rare holiday movies that may send children screaming under their seats". Konchalovsky stands by the film. "I am very happy with it. It wasn't a disaster, except in distribution. It was independent, very expensive, there was a rival Christmas film from Disney, and I tend to think I was killed by Disney. That is very soothing." But people didn't like it, critics didn't like it, I insist. "Critics, not people," he says. "They're two different races." Does the pain of failure linger? "You're nervous for a while, and then you forget about it. The best way is to smile and forget. Otherwise, you become wounded for all your life."This may be a way of rationalising recent failures: his last major film, The Nutcracker in 3D, made with Hungarian backing in 2009 for $90m, was a commercial and critical turkey. The US critic Roger Ebert called it "one of those rare holiday movies that may send children screaming under their seats". Konchalovsky stands by the film. "I am very happy with it. It wasn't a disaster, except in distribution. It was independent, very expensive, there was a rival Christmas film from Disney, and I tend to think I was killed by Disney. That is very soothing." But people didn't like it, critics didn't like it, I insist. "Critics, not people," he says. "They're two different races." Does the pain of failure linger? "You're nervous for a while, and then you forget about it. The best way is to smile and forget. Otherwise, you become wounded for all your life."
Surely the failure of the film means he won't be getting another $90m any time soon. "I don't want to do anything for $90m any more," he says. "More money, less freedom. I prefer to make films on my lap, and to try to understand what film really is. Maybe no one will like my film, but if I'm not spending money, no one will care."Surely the failure of the film means he won't be getting another $90m any time soon. "I don't want to do anything for $90m any more," he says. "More money, less freedom. I prefer to make films on my lap, and to try to understand what film really is. Maybe no one will like my film, but if I'm not spending money, no one will care."
This taste for freedom was at the heart of his falling-out with Hollywood in the 80s: he got fired from the 1989 Sylvester Stallone cop comedy Tango & Cash when he and the producers disagreed over the ending. "I was very happy to be fired," he says. "I got my money and went to France. Apart from Tango & Cash, which I made for a major company, I was relatively free, and the films I made after Russia were quite personal. I failed to work for majors because I was jaded enough to be an auteur. Tango & Cash, like every real Hollywood film, is a film for people who cannot read."This taste for freedom was at the heart of his falling-out with Hollywood in the 80s: he got fired from the 1989 Sylvester Stallone cop comedy Tango & Cash when he and the producers disagreed over the ending. "I was very happy to be fired," he says. "I got my money and went to France. Apart from Tango & Cash, which I made for a major company, I was relatively free, and the films I made after Russia were quite personal. I failed to work for majors because I was jaded enough to be an auteur. Tango & Cash, like every real Hollywood film, is a film for people who cannot read."
Was it easier to work with Soviet censors or American producers? "In the Soviet Union, you could complain," he says. "In Hollywood, you can't. People just say: 'That's life. It doesn't work. Finish.'"Was it easier to work with Soviet censors or American producers? "In the Soviet Union, you could complain," he says. "In Hollywood, you can't. People just say: 'That's life. It doesn't work. Finish.'"
He sounds almost nostalgic for the 60s and 70s, when he established his reputation with a series of Soviet films: in particular Asya's Happiness, a bleakly beautiful portrait, shot in black and white, of a rural community in the Soviet Union in the mid-1960s; and Siberiade, a hugely ambitious four-and-a-half-hour saga that follows the lives of two warring families in the Siberian village of Yelan from just before the revolution through to the 1960s. The latter, which won the grand prix at Cannes in 1979, was what attracted Hollywood.He sounds almost nostalgic for the 60s and 70s, when he established his reputation with a series of Soviet films: in particular Asya's Happiness, a bleakly beautiful portrait, shot in black and white, of a rural community in the Soviet Union in the mid-1960s; and Siberiade, a hugely ambitious four-and-a-half-hour saga that follows the lives of two warring families in the Siberian village of Yelan from just before the revolution through to the 1960s. The latter, which won the grand prix at Cannes in 1979, was what attracted Hollywood.
Making films in the Soviet Union was, he says, "very easy if you knew what not to touch. You had to find a way to speak in a language that everyone except the censors understood. It was like working during the Inquisition. It was easy because money was pouring in. Once you'd got past the censorship, you didn't have to think about money, and you didn't have to think about success, either. You were condemned to success because there were so few films, especially decent films." The collapse of the Soviet Union, he points out, has produced no cinematic masterpieces. "Freedom is not a guarantee of good art. The best art comes in the war or the plague."Making films in the Soviet Union was, he says, "very easy if you knew what not to touch. You had to find a way to speak in a language that everyone except the censors understood. It was like working during the Inquisition. It was easy because money was pouring in. Once you'd got past the censorship, you didn't have to think about money, and you didn't have to think about success, either. You were condemned to success because there were so few films, especially decent films." The collapse of the Soviet Union, he points out, has produced no cinematic masterpieces. "Freedom is not a guarantee of good art. The best art comes in the war or the plague."
He refuses to say whether he prefers his Soviet or American films, or even which is his favourite film overall, falling back on the "films are like children" line. "Frankly speaking, I don't care," he says. "I don't even want to think about it. I have to be represented by my last film all the time. I am my last film – and if I'm senile, that's me."He refuses to say whether he prefers his Soviet or American films, or even which is his favourite film overall, falling back on the "films are like children" line. "Frankly speaking, I don't care," he says. "I don't even want to think about it. I have to be represented by my last film all the time. I am my last film – and if I'm senile, that's me."
Runaway Train, made in 1985 and the best known from his American period, is still highly regarded. Even Ebert admired it. Why did it work so well? "It was a great script by [Akira] Kurosawa and basically followed Dostoevsky's formula: philosophical questions wrapped in a criminal story." He tells me the great director Billy Wilder loved it, and became his mentor in Hollywood. Wilder was, however, less taken with his next film, Duet for One, about a concert violinist stricken with multiple sclerosis (with echoes of the cellist Jacqueline du Pré). "He said: 'You have to cut this, you have to cut this, and you have to cut this.' I said: 'Billy, is it not going to be too short?' And he said: 'My dear friend, the only things that are too short in the world are your life and your penis.'"Runaway Train, made in 1985 and the best known from his American period, is still highly regarded. Even Ebert admired it. Why did it work so well? "It was a great script by [Akira] Kurosawa and basically followed Dostoevsky's formula: philosophical questions wrapped in a criminal story." He tells me the great director Billy Wilder loved it, and became his mentor in Hollywood. Wilder was, however, less taken with his next film, Duet for One, about a concert violinist stricken with multiple sclerosis (with echoes of the cellist Jacqueline du Pré). "He said: 'You have to cut this, you have to cut this, and you have to cut this.' I said: 'Billy, is it not going to be too short?' And he said: 'My dear friend, the only things that are too short in the world are your life and your penis.'"
Konchalovsky tells the story with a flourish – but he never made the cuts. An auteur to the end.Konchalovsky tells the story with a flourish – but he never made the cuts. An auteur to the end.
• Uncle Vanya and Three Sisters are at Wyndham's Theatre, London WC2, from tonight until 3 May. Box office: 0844 482 5120; chekhovlondon.co.uk• Uncle Vanya and Three Sisters are at Wyndham's Theatre, London WC2, from tonight until 3 May. Box office: 0844 482 5120; chekhovlondon.co.uk