Andrey Zvyagintsev's Minotaur legacy is assured as a modern masterpiece.
Written by Kenza Bouhnass Parra
After its world premiere at the Cannes Film Festival, where it enchanted critics and audiences and won the Grand Prix, Andrey Zvyagintsev's Minotaur stopped by TIFF for its Canadian premiere and, this time around, exercised its charm on me.
The latest film from the acclaimed Russian director, known notably for Leviathan (2014) and The Return (2003), is based on Claude Chabrol’s The Unfaithful Wife, released in 1969. In this retelling, we do not follow a Parisian insurance broker, but a Russian business executive, Gleb (Dmitriy Mazurov), who lives in a luxurious house right outside of town with his wife, Galina (Iris Lebedeva) and their son (Boris Koudrine). Set against the backdrop of Russia’s invasion of Ukraine in 2022, Gleb sees the image he holds of his wife crumble as he discovers that she’s been unfaithful.
Minotaur had me mesmerized for his entire run-through, and my appreciation for it has only grown exponentially since. An intricate look into a family’s dynamic, it uses its narrative as an entry point into the exploration of its members’ sets of beliefs, morals and where they draw those virtuous lines. The film is in no hurry to enclose its characters in the stereotypes of the unfaithful wife and the deceived husband. Instead, every second of its 135-minute runtime is used to flesh out complex and ambiguous individuals, capable of deception just as well as empathy.
But Zvyagintsev, in exile from his home country, depicts the image of another familial conflict: his motherland. The particular brilliance of the screenplay lies in the archetypes of the Russian conflict’s actors, which the characters embody. He does not shy away from a cold but truthful portrait of Russia, and the many pawns within its society, which are simultaneously products of its culture, but also impact and perpetuate its cycle of suspicion and distrust. Conflicts conducted by the country are impacted by individual behaviours, whether willing or unwilling, aware or unaware, as these individuals might be. The question is not of morality, but rather of responsibility, and how our choices and reactions impact the lives of our loved ones surrounding us, but also society at large. An anthropological study of how lies exist and coexist, survive and get discovered in a state of surveillance.
On a technical level, Minotaur particularly shines through its production design and its use of spaces. The depicted architecture translates a world of surveillance in which everyone is exposed at all times. See-through houses, shared offices and walls made of glass. Characters are constantly in view, looks are sent through reflections, and actions are taken on the other side of a window. Vulnerable and unmasked. And yet, some shadows remain in the corners. Some spaces escape because of the design itself, the ever-watching eye, and leave a refuge for the secrets of the souls to squeeze themselves into. In a world of exposing brightness, dimness is not only welcome, but it is needed. And it is in those dark spaces, when a lamp is turned off, or a corner is no longer within the sun’s rays’ trajectories, that the film fully comes into its own.
It is a film that will stay with me, but also remain one of the best within a phenomenal year for cinema, and unfortunately, will become more and more relevant as we slip further into surveillance societies; Andrey Zvyagintsev's Minotaur legacy is assured as a modern masterpiece.
Minotaur had its Canadian premiere at the Toronto International Film Festival on September 15 and will be screening at the London Film Festival and the Festival du Nouveau Cinéma before hitting theatres in North America on November 20th.
Photo: TIFF
Comments
Post a Comment