“The crown jewel of pre-Revolutionary cinema,” “the final chord of Mozzhukhin’s career,” “a film that brought glory to Russian cinema,” “a feast in the midst of philistine monotony,” “the only big achievement of early Russian cinema” – all this has been written about Father Sergius by contemporaries and scholars. In fact, upon reading memoirs and scholarly papers from the 1930s-1980s, one might get the impression that there was basically nothing worth remembering in pre-Soviet cinema except for two collaborations between Yakov Protazanov and Ivan Mozzhukhin, The Queen of Spades and Father Sergius.
In view of this, it is particularly interesting that both films were not particularly well received at the time of their initial release. But The Queen of Spades, which premiered in 1915, at the peak of the Russian film industry, managed to ripen fast: three years later it was already regarded as a classic. Father Sergius was released in May 1918, in the midst of the civil war. And by the 1920s all pre-Soviet film production was considered outdated, if not counter-revolutionary. When Father Sergius was quietly re-released in 1928, there were protests in the press and accusations of clerical propaganda.
In reality Father Sergius was anything but clerical propaganda. It is, in fact, an essentially post-Revolutionary work. It could never have been released before February 1917 because of the Holy Synod censorship. The interiors of churches, clergymen, religious ceremonies – all were completely forbidden in narrative films. Let alone that Leo Tolstoy’s radical self-developed Christian philosophy led to his excommunication from the Russian Orthodox Church. Father Sergius was one of several works by Tolstoy that criticized the hypocrisy of the Orthodox Church as an institution; it was published posthumously, in 1911, and by the end of the decade was still considered fresh, new, and rather scandalous.
A film adaption of Father Sergius wouldn’t have passed secular censorship either, for the depiction of the royal family was possible only with the consent of the Ministry of Court, and Nicholas I, the great-grandfather of the current czar, Nicholas II, is portrayed here as an immoral and double-faced character.
Protazanov was obsessed with Tolstoy’s story, and cherished the idea of its adaptation for years. He plunged into this project right after the Revolution. It was highly publicized, and announced as a surefire blockbuster. It should also be said that, from its very first days, Russian cinema was magnetized by the figure of Tolstoy, and nearly all adaptations of his work (let alone personal appearances on screen) were highly anticipated and widely discussed.
Religious ceremonies are demonstrated here with scrutiny – not only as the forbidden fruit of many years but also because of Protazanov’s lifelong interest in clerical life with all its mechanics and undercurrents. But, what’s interesting, though the film starts as a lavish costume drama (and there are two set designers of polar tastes), in the “religious” part Protazanov limits the use of sets and props to an absolute minimum, in order to concentrate on the acting.
Nearly all the artistic forces of the Yermoliev company were involved in the production, and, considering its status, some big stars of the screen were not above playing the smallest parts. Vera Orlova, a promising actress of the Moscow Art Theatre and the star of The Queen of Spades, appears only for a couple of minutes, as a half-witted nymphomaniac girl who seduces the old holy man. The famous Natalia Lisenko, Mozzhukhin’s wife and regular screen partner, also has just one scene in the film (which, it’s worth noting, might be her finest achievement in Russian cinema). Nikolai Rimskii, a young and ambitious leading man, Mozzhukin’s main rival at the Yermoliev company, is almost unrecognizable in a tiny role as an old bishop.
But Father Sergius is first and foremost a vehicle for Ivan Mozzhukhin, the undeniable “king of the Russian screen,” known for his versatility and taste for mimicry. He was fascinated to portray all ages and phases of his character – from a fast-tempered teenager at a military school through a brilliant young officer, to a majestic priest in a rich monastery, and, finally, a humble elderly pilgrim arrested for panhandling.
In spite of his reputation as a holy man and a healer, deep inside Tolstoy’s Father Sergius is still the same vain prince Kasatsky, and most of his life he is struggling with his pride and increasing lack of faith. In the film version of the story he is largely fighting with the temptations of the flesh. This is quite logical, taking into account Mozzhukhin’s fame as a sex symbol and the general obsession of early Russian cinema with sexual topics.
For, aesthetically, Father Sergius still belongs to early Russian cinema. However hazardous the material and however convincing the acting, it should still be noted that there isn’t much revolutionary in the editing or acting. (In this respect, Protazanov’s unpretentious comedy melodrama Chambermaid Jenny, made that same year, is a much more radical step towards new film language.) Father Sergius might not be “the crown jewel” and it is definitely not “the only big achievement,” but it draws a line under the whole tradition of pre-Revolutionary Russian cinema. A final chord indeed. And as such it embodied the whole period for several generations.

Peter Bagrov