Friday, August 1, 2014

VIPudokin. Film technique. Translator, Ivor Montagu. Vision Press. 1914. 07. Notes and appendices.


In the discussion of any technical subject it is necessary to employ technical terms. Technical cinematographic terms afford wide opportunities for ambiguity and obscurity in two ways. In the first place, they are usually not invented words, but words in common use extended to embrace technical meanings, to the confusion of the layman. In the second place, they vary slightly owing to differing practices in differing countries, or even in different studios, to the confusion of the expert. It is therefore desirable to establish, by definition, the sense in which technical terms have been employed in the preceding essays.
The word Producer in the film world is properly applied only to the business man, financial organiser, managing director of a producing concern; the driving-force rather than the technical guidance behind any given production. Producer in the stage sense has become Director in the films. This terminology is American in origin, but is now universal in England also.
The word Scenario is loosely applied to almost any written matter relating to the story preparation of a film in any of its stages. The course of development is roughly as follows*: The Synopsis is an

* Theme is a term of sense almost exactly congruous to its nonspecialist meaning. It never represents a written document, except possibly in the case where the film’s genesis is represented by the producer commanding, “Make me a war-film, a film of motherlove, or so forth.”

outline of three or four typewritten pages containing the barest summary of character and action. It is made for the convenience of the producer or scenario-chooser, who may be too busy or unwilling to study potential subjects at length. In the adaptation of a book or a play, the synopsis represents the first stage. In the case of an original filmstory it may rather be a précis of the next stage following.
This is the Treatment. A treatment is more extensive, usually from twenty to fifty pages. Here, although still written throughout in purely narrative form, we have, already indicated by means of a certain degree of detail in pictorial description, the actual visual potentialities of the suggested action. The use of the word scenario for either of these documents is more common with the layman than with the technician. Credit for a treatment is given, on a title or in a technical publication, more often by the words “Story by” than by association with the scenario. The words “Scenario by” imply work on a yet later stage—the shootingscript.
The Shooting-script is the scenario in its final cinematograph form, with all its incidents and appearances broken up in numbered sequence into the separate images from which they will be later represented. These separate images are called Script-scenes, listed, in the typewritten abbreviation of a usual shooting-script, simply as Scenes—e.g. Scene 1, Scene 2, etc. The words appearing upon the screen are also listed, as Main-title (the name of the film, and credit-titles), Sub-titles (never “captions”—this is a layman’s term), Inserts, writings that are part of a scene, and Superimposed titles, a term carrying its own meaning.
It is evident from Pudovkin’s essay on the scenario that an intermediate stage, quite unusual in England or America, intervenes in U.S.S.R. between the purely narrative treatment and its complete cinematographic analysis, the shooting-script. In this stage the titles stand already numbered, so do the separate tiny incidents, but there is no indication yet of the images to be selected to compose them. Such an incident Pudovkin terms a”scene, 55 using the word almost in the sense in which it is used in a classical French play, to indicate not merely a change of place, but even a change of circumstance such as the entrance or exit of a player. To avoid confusion, the word scene has been avoided in this text, being rendered by”incident, 55 except in the example given of this stage of treatment.*
The Sequence is a convenient division, into a series of which the action naturally falls. The sequences are already feelable even in the purely narrative treatment, and may each contain numbers of incidents, or scenes (in the Pudovkin sense) . The sequence of the stealing of the Princess embraces all the business of running away with her, possibly involving interactions at several different geographical points. The “scene” (Pudovkin’s sense) of the Princess being stolen probably covers only the actual carrying her out of her bedroom; dragging her down the stairs would be another “scene” (incident, in the phraseology

* Those interested to study further the Soviet method of writing scenarios are referred to two published examples: that of Eisenstein and Alexandrev’s “The General Line,”published as a booklet in German, and extracts from Eisenstein, Alexandrov and Montagu’s “An American Tragedy,” published bv the late H. A. Potamkin in “Close-Up.”

I have employed) . The separate parts that compose such a”scene,”the as yet further indivisible atoms of the film-structure,* are termed variously according to their function considered at the moment. In their philosophic function we term them separate images; materially, separate pieces of celluloid; functionally, in the shooting-script, script-scenes (abb. scenes); as separate tasks upon the floor of the studio, or as separate parts of a finished, edited film, Shots; while in the cutting-room we find that each is represented by several subsimilar pieces, varying in number according to the number of times its action was respectively shot, spoken of as the several Takes of one shot.
On the floor of the studio we Shoot or Take the shots. The latter expression is perhaps the more common in speaking of a script-scene in single aspect (“How many times did we take that scene?”), the former as a general term (“We shot ten scenes before lunch”;”We could not shoot to-day, because of fog”). The word Turn, a transliteration of which is used in several European languages instead of shoot, is used in English only of the special activity of a cameraman (“Who turned for you on that picture?”). Note that in our last example Picture is used to mean whole film. This sense is slang rather than technical. The picture should properly imply the composition space of an image †—i.e., Picture-shape, meaning screen-shape. The camera Set-up

* The actual subdivisibility of the atom is in film paralleled only by those instances (double exposure and the like) in which a single shot is blended from the effects of more than one separate cameraaction.
† The composition space termed picture on the floor is termed a frame in the cutting-room, though its height, as a unit of the length of the picture, has then become more significant than its general shape. The frame, three-quarters of an inch high on the actual piece of standard size celluloid, is the concrete unit, repetition of which gives, in projection of a shot, the illusion of movement.

refers to its position in relation to the shot object, not only its distance from the object, but also its angle to it. If we alter the one or the other we alter the set-up. The Camera-angle, in this sense, is the relation between the vertical and horizontal axes of the object shot on the one hand, and the plane of the film at the moment of shooting on the other. The distances of the camera from the shot object are technically designated as Long-Shot, Mid-Shot, and Close-Up, with their manifold supplementaries. No two studios, directors, or scenarists will agree absolutely about the measure of these shots, which have constancy only in their relation to one another. One technician will describe a distance showing the figure from crown to knee as a mid-shot, another as a medium long-shot. The full tally is something like distance-shot, long-shot, medium long-shot, mid-shot, semiclose- up, close-up, big close-up (or, in the appropriate special case, big head).
It is important to gain a clear conception of the activities embraced here by the word Editing. The word used by Pudovkin, the German and French word, is montage. Its only possible English equivalent is editing. But in England, in the trade, the editor is too often conceived of as a humble person, called in after the damage, or good, has been done upon the floor, to accomplish a relatively mechanical task upon material the effect of which has been already settled. The word editing, as used here in its correct sense, has a far wider, constructive application. It covers manifold activities, not only those which compose in the cutting-room an appearance from single images, but those which, in the work on the script, predetermine and select those images and their sequence which will be necessary to form the later appearance proposed. In its later uses by the Russians—and here we often retain montage—it implies mounting or amounting of all the affective impulses ofsound or vision that in one way or another amountedly affect the spectator. The degree to which the verb monter, to build or edit, is still comprehended in England as implying little beyond the relatively mechanical concept to cut, indicates the degree to which an understanding of the creative process implied by its wider sense may be fruitful for the future advancement of the industry.


1. It is interesting to note that at least three major films turned out so long that they were issued in two parts intended to be booked at successive weeks: Fritz Lang’s Nibelungs (Siegfried, called Nibelungs in England, and Kriemhild’s Revenge, called in England The She-Devil); the same director’s Dr. Mabuse and Gustav Molander’s Jerusalem from the Selma Lagerlof story. American super-productions of unusual length concede an interval at half-way on their premier showing, and are shortened subsequently for general release. The over-long Stroheim pictures Greed for Universal and Wedding March for Paramount were ruthlessly cut down and the wholes have never been seen. On the Continent, where singlefeature programmes are the rule, a film usually attains 9,000 feet—1¾ hours. In England and U.S.A., with the habit of double programmes, only exceptional films attain 90 minutes and the usual length is 70. (p. 9.)
2. Neglect of this rule, to establish clearly the theme first of all and select all incident only to express it, was almost certainly the root cause of the failure of Pudovkin’s penultimate film, A Simple Case. Not all its later devised ingenious embellishments could save it, the fault was in its genesis, (p. 10.)
3. This example may be obscure to the reader not grounded in reformist or revolutionary politics. To a Russian an anarchist is a definite type—shockheaded, piercing eyes, spouting, impractical—in vivid contrast to the communist ideal of an athletic, disciplined, handy-man, that the hero finally becomes. The replacement in the scenario of a vaguely turbulent character by an anarchist is thus, to a Russian, a gain in definiteness. It is as if a character, vague and intangible, were described in an English scenario as being “in the army.” By tightening in revision the character is made a sergeant-major. Everyone in England knows what a sergeant-major is like; the other persons in the story can be readily characterised by their reactions to him. The gain in definiteness is obvious, (p. 11.)
4. How far and under what conditions are “spoken phrases” admissible in sound films? The author gives his view on this question in essays VII and VIII. (p. 14.)
5. Here in the original follows a sentence: “But it is necessary to know them, and the reader’s attention is recommended to the short bibliography at the end of this sketch.” A fruitless recommendation, for, alas, the printer omitted the bibliography, (p. 17.)
6. The classic example of the creation by extraneous methods of a tension not implicit for most audiences in the given dramatic material is the Separator Sequence in The General Line. (p. 18.)
7. Scenes and script-scenes. Refer to Glossarial Notes, (p. 21.)
8. Here a wide textual alteration has been made. In the original the author gives guidance for sensing the amount of material required in each reel (rather than in the scenario as a whole), for “it must be borne in mind that each reel must, to a certain extent, represent a self-contained part of the picture. In order that the short interval necessary for changing the reel in exhibition shall not break up the unity of impression, effort must be made to distribute the material in such a way that the intervals occur at the place of junction of one just completed part of action to the beginning of the next. In a technically well-constructed scenario the conclusion of a reel is used as a special method completing the action, analogous to the dropping of the curtain at the end of an act in the Theatre.”
These remarks were conditioned by the fact that, at the time of the sketch, and even now, most places of film exhibition in Russia are equipped with only one projector. The conception of the reel as a self-contained dramatic part has no value for the producer in Western Europe and America, where two-projector exhibition is universal, unless perhaps for the amateur. It should be noted, indeed, that in production for two-projector exhibition the reverse requirement obtains. The cutter should take care not to divide his reels at the end of a sequence. A short footage is almost always lost to view in each change-over, owing to the precautions taken by the operator to avoid at all costs the shattering appearance on the screen of the tag “End of Reel X” or “Reel X + 1.” For example, the penultimate and last reels of Two Days. Here the Russian, relying on his interval, shows at the end of the penultimate reel a short shot of the father kneeling by his hanged son; slow fade-out. Interval for lacing up the next reel. Fade-in, father rising to his feet. We are aware that he has been long dazed with sorrow, and has at last reached a critical impulse, to fire the house of his son’s executioners. On a Western apparatus the change-over swallows all, or the best part of, the fades. The father appears merely to indulge in a more or less irrational kneeling-down and almost immediate standing-up, and much of the”Tightness”of the psychology of his impulse is lost. Care should be taken, therefore, by the cutter to divide his reels preferably at a place of cross-cut shots where loss of perhaps the last foot of one and the first foot of another will be insignificant, (p. 21.)
9. Note that in a talking-film script, the dialogue is set out bunched up on the right-hand side of the page, as in a play, not between the scenes and level with them, as the spoken sub-titles here. (p. 21.)
10. Refer to Glossarial Notes, (p. 23.)
11. A girl member of the Young Communist League, (p. 23.)
12. This paragraph remains equally true for sound films in Pudovkin’s view. So long as an image appears it should not be casual, but selected for its expression; similarly speech should not be casual — the speech that might happen to be uttered—but rigidly selected and arranged for maximum expression. See his essays VII and VIII. (p. 27.)
13. The principle has a useful application, by converse inference, for the editor (the cutter and titler, called in after the damage is done) as well as for the scenarist. Suppose he be confronted with this weak scene of Olga walking out on her husband, already made, he can slightly strengthen it by weakening the preceding title—that is, making it more indefinite. Thus: “Olga, unable to endure her hard-hearted husband, came to a crucial decision.” (p. 33.)
14. A long experience of titling enables me to be not contradictory, but perhaps more definite. Three considerations affect titles; they are, in order of descending importance: (a) content, (b) style, (c) compression.
The absolutely clear significance of the content for the development of the action is paramount. That satisfied, the use of phraseology in spoken titles helping to characterise a speaker or his mood, or of style in continuity titles wedded to the momentary spirit of the film, may be exceedingly valuable. Compression, though to be considered only after the other two desiderata, is highly important; though few spectators are analphabets, reading is, to many of them, an exercise, and, if the screen be full of type, an astonishing number make no effort to begin on it at all. (p. 33.)
15. Methods of measuring title-length vary. That given here, though used in several studios, is an excessively large approximation. A more exact allowance is one foot for each of the first five words, and one foot for each subsequent pair of words. This presupposes that a material part of the time taken in reading a card is taken up, firstly, in adjustment to the first appearance of the card, secondly, in adjustment to each new word; length of words is regarded as temporally relatively unimportant, for most long words are recognised when only a part of their length has been spelt out. For this view there is experimental support. (p. 33.)
16. To it belongs also the science of selection of fount (or script), tone, and background, (p. 34.)
17. To avoid interruption of the flow of rapid action by length in a title, the Russians introduced the method of “split-titles,” that is, distribution of the essential content to be rendered on to two or three separated cards; each is thus shown short in footage and the tempo undisturbed. Still faster, in his penultimate film, Pudovkin cut alternate frames of a title and a picture in battle scenes. This gave an effect of almost machine-gun rapidity. Alternate frame effects can also be got, perhaps more easily, in what is called an “optical printer.” (p. 35.)
18. The text is here slightly amended. The author gives as his simple form the iris-in and iris-out, mentioning what is called the fade only as a variant. Irises were used far more in the past than to-day, the fade has now been found to be less distracting to the spectator. The mere reversal of their respective positions, with litde phrase alteration, is effective in modernising the passage. (p. 35.)
19. See Note 18. (p. 36.)
20. These effects have lately come very much into fashion; they are called “wipes,” and are most usually effected not in the camera but on the printer. (p. 36.)
21. The mix need not be effected at once in the camera; it can be made subsequendy in the printing, or by various trick processes. As a matter of fact, however—though there is no theoretical reason why it should be so—such processes and printing machines are, in practice, nearly always imperfect, and result in a loss of photographic quality, (p. 37.)
22. Accomplished by means of a camera accessory, such a shot is termed a “pan.” Accomplished by free-hand, it is usually termed a “swinging” shot. (p. 37.)
23. There is strong difference on this point. A costly process, owing to the time taken for the complex preparation of such a shot, the prodigal Americans use it more and more frequently, for such purposes as the following of a character along passages, up flights of stairs, and so forth. Tracking (and panning) are in disfavour with the left-wing Russian school, for, naturalists, they hold such methods easily tend to remind the spectator of the presence of the camera. (p. 38.)
24. The same effect is often obtained by gauzes or cigarette smoke in front of the lens. (p. 38.)
25. Scenes and script-scenes. Refer to Glossarial Notes. (p. 39.)
26. A further wide textual alteration. Discussion was given of the editing of the reel (“each reel is a more or less complete whole, corresponding, to a certain degree, to an act upon the stage”) and of the scenario separately. In considering reels, the author repeated the desideratum that their material must be independent and self-contained, though now adding that, with two-projector exhibition, this is unnecessary. In considering the scenario as a whole, the author suggested the various size of reels as a means of sparing to the end the energy of the spectator. The early ones long, while he is fresh, the middle reels shorter, and the last reel, if necessary, longer again, so that the pure final action need not be interrupted by new lacing-up. These observations are significant in Western Europe and America for amateurs only. Refer to Note 8. (p. 45.)
27. The author here repeated, almost word for word, the account of those scenes given on (p. 49.)

28. The great significance here alluded to by Pudovkin is the economic consequence that cost of performance becomes a mere fraction of cost of production. Whereas in the theatre or concert hall, chief analogies in the entertainment industry, costs of repeat performance are relatively much nearer original production costs. This, not anything in their respective intrinsic possibilities of creative method, determines the paramountcy of theatre for esoteric groups, and puts the cinema as a mass art out on its own with limitless financial resources. (p. 52.)
29. The original here speaks of the impossibility of approaching “scenes,” using the word in the classical French sense. See Glossarial Notes, (p. 57.)
30. The net is “cheated.” Any movement or object outside the picture-frame or otherwise unremarked is said to be “cheated.” (p. 57.)
31 . Communist mixed Boy and Girl Scouts, (p. 58.)
32. By a curious error of mistranslation on the part of the German renters of this film it has been customary to refer to this warship as an armoured cruiser (Panzerkreuzer) . Both in actuality and in the Russian name of the film the Potemkin is a predreadnought battleship, the full name of which is Potemkin Tavritcheski (ex Pantelimon, ex Kniaz Potemkin Tavritcheski) . It was completed in 1900, and its details are given as follows: Displacement, 12,480 metric tons; complement, 741; guns, four 12”, sixteen 6”, fourteen 11 -pounders, six 3-pounders; 5 torpedo-tubes, speed, about 16 knots. It closely resembles those English classes of pre-dreadnought —Bulwark, Formidable, Majestic, Canopus—of which so many examples were lost during the war. (p. 67.)
33. These are the marble steps leading from the statue of the Due de Richelieu on the boulevard to the docks below, (p. 67.)
34. In the German edition the translators here inserted Ruttman’s Berlin as a film of this kind. This is absurd; Berlin was most carefully scripted and exactly executed, and the instance was repudiated by Pudovkin when brought to his attention, (p. 72.)
35. The counter to this rule is, of course, Dziga-Vertov with his theory of the “Kino-eye.” Dziga- Vertov holds that the director should stage nothing, simply going about quietly and unobservedly accumulating material with the camera, his “Kinoeye,” and that only such a film as one in which the director’s “interference” with the natural course of events is limited to choosing and eliminating details can properly be called documentary. It is all a matter of degree. At the one pole there is the arbitrary, staged and acted event — Chang or the sandstorm in Turksib, at the other the lurking about the streets of Ruttmann in Berlin or Dziga-Vertov. But even Dziga-Vertov would doubtless repeat and “interfere” in the sense of the next text paragraph to secure certain material, (p. 74.)
36. In England it is the whole work of one member of the producing team, the “continuity” or floor-secretary, to aid the director to keep watch on correspondences of this kind. (p. 79.)
37. Recall that the director’s field will alter with every lens. Modification of the amount of space to be embraced may often be effected not by change of set-up but by change of lens. (p. 80.)
38. In “The Dynamic Square,” Eistenstein eloquently pleads for all those male shapes utterly banned from proper screen expression by its at present accepted frame, (p. 81.)
39. The Mechanism of the Brain, Reel One. (p. 83.)
40. At the former Imperial summer residence in Livadea, near Yalta, (p. 89.)
41. Pudovkin is himself a declared and practising disciple of the American Griffith in this matter. Compare the steady, inexorable flow of spring river ice and the marching, demonstrating workers in Mother; compare the storm, existing for the story not in reality but only in emotion, that sweeps away the English at the finale of Jenghiz Khan. This last is his most daring and remarkable achievement. For the risk of introducing an emotional environmental effect is that it is much less likely than a real one to be apprehended unconsciously by the audience; it may become a symbol, requiring conscious effort for comprehension, and risk passing the audience by, e.g., the Regeneration Sequence in Simple Case. (p. 101.)
42. Recall again the Separator Sequence, General Line, Reel Two. (p. 104.)
43. Example: The grimacing and painted Krauss standing on a real hill, pretending to influence a real fox, real foxhounds and horses; a preposterous scene in The Student of Prague, (p. 106.)
44. It requires such an abundance of stock on the regular pay-roll as can only be afforded by the wealthiest film-company. The herding of extras into a film-city, in which all companies centralise their studios, has, however, something of the same effect, (p. 108.)
45. Many historians of the Theatre would disagree, (p. 110.)
46. For Pudovkin’s views on the proper relation of speeches and movements in dialogue film see essays VII and VIII. (p. 115.)
47. Remember also the face of the Mongol in the finale of The Heir to Jenghiz Khan. (p. 119.)
48. Soft-focus, refer note 24 (p. 122).
49. This is a considerable over-estimate for the conditions of commercial film production in the West. Companies with big studio investments hate going on location; they must keep their studios occupied to cover their overheads. (p. 129).
50. This, of course, the elimination of the supererogatory, is what makes the Close-up the keystone of the whole power and effectiveness of the cinema. A measure—the ultimate possible—of the unconsciousness of the West and its innocence of theory was seen at that meeting of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, the would-be learned society of Hollywood, at which were delivered Eisenstein’s remarks on “The Dynamic Square.” This meeting was called to consider Wide Film. A prominent cameraman from Fox was recounting his experiences. Although one could not approach close enough to the subject to secure a close-up, he declared this was no drawback, for the image on the screen was so large that the characters’ expressions could none the less be clearly discerned even in mid-shot! Despite the presence of a multitude of directors and leading technicians from every studio, this astounding appraisal excited no remark. To this day, though their pragmatism has taught them to drop Wide Film after stinging losses, the big companies are probably quite mystified and unable to account for the public’s indifference to it. (p. 129.)
51. There is a growing tendency, alas, in England and America for the director too to leave, his picture at this point passing to an “editor.” It derives from commercial envy of the “quickies,” and must tend, with them, to standardisation and mechanicalisation of style, (p. 136.)
52. In spite of this address it should be noted that Pudovkin does very often use actors. Inkishinov, Baranovskaia, Batalov, Baturin, are examples of more or less experienced actors in leading roles in his films. Other equally important parts are, it is true, played by complete novices and he certainly handles them all, experienced and otherwise, with the technique prescribed here for the handling of types. Dovzhenko uses types rather more, and only Eisenstein invariably, (p. 137).
53. Various means of obtaining “Close-ups in Time” have been used previously by directors other than the quoted Epstein. Turning the camera fast — though not in actual exaggerated slow-motion as in these experiments—is not at all uncommon for certain underlinings. Some of Fairbanks athletic feats were probably recorded in this way to emphasise their grace. Eisenstein, on the other hand, has always emphasised his moments by repetitive cutting. Recall the repetition in the enthroning in the tractor in the last reel of General Line, in the bridge scene of October, and as for the Odessa Steps scene in Potemkin—you will find that the soldiers march down this whole length two or three times if all the descent shots are added together. These are other technical means to the same end as the experiments in A Simple Case here described. (p. 146).

1.      The Mechanism of the Brain (Mejrabpom-russ, 1925)
Technical scientific direction: Professor L. N. Voskresenski and Professor D. S. Fursikov.
Technical cinematographic direction: V. I. Pudovkin.
Physiological experiments and operations: Professor D. S. Fursikov.
Animal-life direction: L. N. Danilov.
Conditional reflex experiments on children: Professor N. I. Krasnogorski.
Child-life direction: Professor A. S. Durnovo.
Diagrams: I. Vano, D. Tcherkess, V. Merkulov.
Photography: A. N. Golovnia.
A documentary film illustrative of comparative mental processes, more particularly of the progress in knowledge of conditioned reflexes attained by workers in Professor Pavlov’s laboratory at the Academy of Sciences, Leningrad. Regarded as unsuitable for public presentation by the B.B. of F.C., February 1929. First exhibited in England, privately, to the Royal Society of Medicine (Neurological Section), March, 1929.
2.      The Chess Player (Mejrabpom-russ, 1926).
Direction: V. I. Pudovkin.
A short comedy in which, by means of an experiment in cutting and editing, J. R. Capablanca is made to appear to play a part.
3.      Mother (Mejrabpom-russ, 1926).
Based on the story by Maxim Gorki.
Scenario: N. A. Zarkhi.
Direction: V. I. Pudovkin.
Art Direction: S. V. Koslovski.
Photography: A. N. Golovnia.
Cast: The father—A. Tchistiakov [Kenneth Macpherson, in Bryher’s Film Problems of Soviet Russia (q.v.), identifies this character as the actor Leinstiakov.]; the mother —Vera Baranovskaia; the son—Nikolai Batalov.
Baranovskaia and Batalov are professionals, Tchistiakov is an accountant of Mejrabpom, he has appeared in each of Pudovkin’s subsequent films. A small part in the film, that of a mild, bespectacled officer, is played by Pudovkin. First performed in England, privately, at the Film Society, October 1928. Regarded as unsuitable for public presentation by the B.B. of F.C., November 1928.
4.      The End of St. Petersburg (Mejrabpom-russ, 1927).
Scenario: N. A. Zarkhi.
Direction: V. I. Pudovkin.
Art Direction: S. V. Koslovski.
Photography: A. N. Golovnia.
Cast: The Bolshevik—A. Tchistiakov; his wife—V. Baranovskaia; the peasant boy— I. Tchuvelev; Lebedev—V. Obolenski; a jingo—V. Tsoppi.
The peasant boy is played by a peasant, whose brother appears, also as a peasant boy, in the blackleg scene. The part of his pregnant mother is played by a peasant woman. The stockbrokers are all former stockbrokers. Obolenski similarly a member of the former governing class. First performed in England, privately, at the Film Society, February 1929.
5.      The Heir to Jenghiz Khan (Mejrabpom-film, 1928).
Based on a story by Novokshenov.
Scenario: O. Brik.
Direction: V. I. Pudovkin.
Art Direction: S. V. Koslovski and Aronson.
Photography: A. N. Golovnia.
Cast: The Mongol—V. Inkishinov; his father— I. Inkishinov; the Partisan leader—A. Tchistiakov; the Commandant—L. Dedintsev; his wife—L. Billinskaia; his daughter—Anna Sujakevitch; a fur-trader—V. Tsoppi; a soldier —K. Gurniak; a missionary—R. Pro.
The four last-named actors are professionals. Inkishinov is assistant producer in the Meyerhold Theatre. His father in the film is played by his actual father, on the location in which he has always lived. The Mongols and Mongolian ceremonies are actual. The film was regarded as unsuitable for public presentation by the B.B. of F.C., August 1929. First presented in England, privately, at the Film Society, February 1930.
6.      The Story of a Simple Case (Mejrabpom-film, 1931).
Theme: M. Koltsova.
Scenario: A. Rzheshevski.
Direction: V. I. Pudovkin.
Photography: G. Kabalov.
Cast: (Prologue) Worker—A. Gortchilin; his wife—Tchekulayeva; son— M. Kashtelian; (Story) Uncle Sasha—A. Tchistiakov; Paul Langovoi—A. Baturin; Fedya Zheltikov—V. Kuzmitch; Masha Langovoi—E. Rogulina; the second wife—M. Belousova.
Baturin is a concert-singer; Kuzmitch actually a Red Army Officer; Belousova a Professor of Psychology. The film was first presented in England, privately, at the Film Society, May 1933; it has been withdrawn in the U.S.S.R. It was at first provisionally named Life is Grand.
7.      Deserter (Mejrabpom-film, 1933).
Scenario: N. Agadjanova-Shutko, M. Krasnostavski, A. Lezebnikov.
Direction: V. I. Pudovkin.
Art Direction: A. Kozlovski.
Photography: A. N. Golovnia.
Sound Recording: E. Nesterov.
Music: I. Shaporin.
Sound System: Tagephon.
Cast: Boris Livanov, M. Aleshchenko, A. Besperotov, S. Gerasimov, I. Gliser, K. Gurniak, A. Konsovski, V. Kovrigin, I. Lavrov, T. Makarova, T. Svashenko, A. Tchistiakov, V. Uralski.


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