Sacrifice as Necessity and the Ascetic Principle of Filmmaking: Andrei Tarkovsky Reconsidered

1 Necessity of Sacrifice: Film and Ascetic Iconography

This article focuses on sacrifice as a necessity in the artistic process of creation through the thought and films of Andrei Tarkovsky. In investigating the concept of sacrifice as a creative, authentic act (rather than intellectualised exercise), this article argues that sacrifice is an ascetic principle applied in both iconography and film. Ascesis has been traditionally expressed through iconography, a “poetic-ecclesiastical language” that contains within itself the theological tradition and experience of Eastern Christianity, its understanding of the world, being, and the divine.^[2] This tradition has shaped film language and aesthetics and exerted a major influence on film artists from Sergei Eisenstein to Andrei Tarkovsky. By drawing upon the theology of ascesis, inverse perspective, and Tarkovsky’s writings on the cinema to examine the director’s last film The Sacrifice, this article opens new ways of reading Tarkovsky’s oeuvre, placing the necessity of sacrifice and the ascetic principle of filmmaking at the heart of scientific research in religion and film.

Ascesis is both a personal podvig ^[3] and the praxis and as such should not be confused with “the activity of thought” or “intellectual conformity.”^[4] Being rooted in the hesychastic prayer of the heart and the hypostatic prayer of liturgy, ascesis is inseparable from liturgical life, without which personhood (hypostasis) cannot be realised. The hypostatic prayer, once cultivated in the heart, becomes the fulfilment of ascetic life whose goal is theosis (θέωσις). Asceticism is often misconceived as a rigid moral training (ἀσκέω, I train), but it goes beyond morality, turning to the source of ethics and as such is not limited to monasticism. Ascetic iconography (εικονογραφία) is an imprint of the narrow path of podvig depicting human life, and the state of being, as the constant “tension between Tabor and Gethsemane.”^[5] Iconography incorporates the struggle between the cross and transfiguration and can be considered the most visual expression of hesychastic and hypostatic prayer, a sacrifice.^[6] Iconography further manifests a “timeless time” and liturgical memory: the former belonging to the divine reality and the latter referring to the divine’s memory of humankind and the created world.

Andrei Tarkovsky wrestled with and reflected upon profound themes related to the human condition in his films, the prevailing one of which is sacrifice. In his own words, Tarkovsky tells us he is “interested above all in the character who is capable of sacrificing himself and his way of life – regardless of whether that sacrifice is made in the name of spiritual values, or for the sake of someone else, or of his own salvation, or of all these things together.”^[7] What moved Tarkovsky is therefore not simply the question of renunciation but “the theme of the harmony, which is born only of sacrifice, the twofold dependence of love.”^[8]

Sacrifice is not just a subject in his films but the way and method of his artistic creation. Contemplating on human activity, Tarkovsky poses the question of whether it “lies in artistic consciousness, in the pointless and selfless creative act?”^[9] It is in his last film The Sacrifice in which the artistic act is completely revealed through “the Christian concept of self-sacrifice.”^[10] For Tarkovsky, sacrifice is not a grandiose act, but rather “the sole means of returning to a normal relationship with life…to restore one’s independence vis-a-vis the material things of life and consequently reaffirm one’s spiritual essence.”^[11] Tarkovsky realised that his idea of sacrifice “goes against the grain of all the latest intellectual tendencies in the West”^[12] and the Soviet Union because, as he writes, modern man “does not want to make any sacrifice, even though true affirmation of self can only be expressed in sacrifice.”^[13]

The principle of sacrifice, in the Tarkovskian sense, is deeply rooted in the religious tradition and experience of Russian Orthodoxy. For Tarkovsky, it is a living, personal experience, and the only true way of existence, which he communicates through all his films in both explicit and implicit ways. From the war film Ivan’s Childhood over the historical epic about the eponymous icon painter Andrei Rublev to the vision of apocalypse in The Sacrifice, Tarkovsky engages with the question of reality, life, and the position of man in turbulent times (Maria, Rublev, Alexander^[14]). Tarkovsky looks at man through the lens of sacrifice on multiple levels – spiritual, artistic, and sacrifice for others – which are often intertwined and inseparable. Implicitly, the concept of sacrifice emerges through film language.^[15] Tarkovsky’s film language may be considered as closest to ascetic-iconographic language: he does not approach the subject from an “outward” perspective but rather from the “inward.” The ascetic principle is revealed not in austerity but in richness of life, colours, and authenticity of images that are written on the cinematic reel in a novel way: through the poetic form. Tarkovsky’s poetic form in cinema reflects his vision of the artist as articulated in his writing. For Tarkovsky, the artist’s task lies in the ability to “discern the lines of the poetic design of being,”^[16] resembling the fresco-like composition of life as physical, historical, and ontological occurrence. Thus, cinematic space, Tarkovsky claims, is “not constructed”^[17] but is the space in which “real time” flows, communicating reality from the reverse perspective, that is, from the position from “within” characteristic of the ascetic iconographic language. As an icon is looking at the observer, instead of vice versa, while at the same time its width unfolds,^[18] the new reality envelops the participant whose focal point remains inside, in the “inward,” as in this non-linear space, the foci point is not in the horizon but in front of the icon, in the viewer-participant. In this sense, iconography reveals the two-dimensional truth of the external and internal liturgical event: the reality of the eternal kingdom of God and the foundation of this kingdom in one’s heart prepared through sacrifice (metanoia) for the meeting of God. Shifting the foci point to the “eyes of the observer,” that is, to one’s heart, is an ascetic way of shifting the focus from the material to the human persona, the hypostasis. The internal and external realities found greatest cinematic expression precisely in Tarkovsky’s opus and contrary to popular belief even “Russian humanists did not regard divinity as external agency, but as internal and integral to the human.”^[19]

Understanding the ways in which (inverse) perspective has informed film language will help us to determine the nature and extent of its influence on the cinema. The issue of perspective has been debated by film theorists and filmmakers: it is André Bazin who argued that perspective is “the original sin of Western painting”^[20] because it creates a pseudo-realism and false sense of equilibrium. The perspective of Renaissance painting introduced “a single point of view” as the “organized form that depends on strict hierarchy”^[21] coinciding “with monarchic government in Europe.”^[22] Here, perspective meets the eye of the subject and the subject creates the meaning, which Jean-Louis Baudry related to the creation of ideology. While understanding that perspective is unavoidable, Andrei Tarkovsky argued in a Dostoevskyian spirit that “the inverted perspective in ancient Russian painting, the denial of Renaissance perspective, expresses the need to throw light on certain spiritual problems which Russian painters…had taken upon themselves.”^[23] The inverse perspective of ascetic language centralises the human being, one’s heart, as the foci point for metanoia – repentance, which offers the only possibility for a new beginning, the transformation. The transformation of the heart in turn offers a radically new experience of reality and consequently humanity, but it requires sacrifice, which is the “circumcision” of the heart.

Perhaps this is one of the crucial spiritual problems to which Tarkovsky refers when he speaks about “certain spiritual problems” and “Russian painters”: “the circumcision” of one’s heart is the act of sacrifice involving both the physical and the spiritual. Frequently considered the first iconographer of cinema, Tarkovsky brings to life, perhaps for the first time, the self-emptying journey of his characters, approaching the creative act as an active state-of-being in which the participation in historical–ontological reality in the eternal presence of God is experienced. It is Tarkovsky’s ability “to create imagery that respects the reality of the material world and yet simultaneously transcends it” is, as Ljujlic argues, one of the hallmarks of Tarkovsky’s aesthetics for which he has been most admired.^[24] In Andrei Rublev history is approached as an actual event, not a “museum reconstruction,” where sacrifice is the underlying motif that leads to the creation of the Holy Trinity, the standing of the artist in the presence of God. This is how Tarkovsky “approached the reality which gave birth to the Trinity” in Andrei Rublev, as “alive and understandable for us who live in the second half of the twentieth century.”^[25] In the case of The Sacrifice, it is “the unveiling of a transcendent reality,” of that which “lies beyond history.”^[26]

2 Film

Moving to study The Sacrifice, it is important to ask the question, in what ways is sacrifice as necessity related to the ascetic principle in filmmaking, and how can it be applied to seemingly opposed doyens of cinema such as Sergei Eisenstein and Andrei Tarkovsky?

It is important to clarify that sacrifice prevails in both Eisenstein’s and Tarkovsky’s thought, as a question, a way of being in the world and with others, and a method of creation. Sacrifice is an ascetic principle, and it is found in both filmmakers: in their thematic choice, in re-thinking sacrifice through film, and in film language. Both Sergei Eisenstein and Andrei Tarkovsky were heavily influenced by religious art and Orthodox iconography, which is manifested in their films. Although Tarkovsky for the most part disagreed with the principles of Eisenstein’s montage, both directors possess a poetic “post-scriptum”: in Tarkovsky’s Andrei Rublev “it is the Holy Trinity, in Eisenstein’s Battleship Potemkin it is the audience.”^[27] The ascetic principle reveals as that which gives the film “a sphere,” a “new beginning,”^[28] enveloping the film like the emerging icon of the Holy Trinity envelops the whole Andrei Rublev. It is important to clarify that this does not mean that either of the directors intentionally gave the “religious note” to their films. Rather, the ascetic principle is to be found in their specific use of film language, understanding of the world and humanity, historically and ontologically. Though to claim both directors were largely influenced by Russian iconography would not be incorrect, it would be however inaccurate to assume that they “imitated” ascetic iconographic language, even in the most visible examples.^[29] Rather, it is the incarnational history both as reality and possibility in which directors act upon, both in their own right, that is interwoven with elements of ascetic iconographic experiences and forms.^[30] A similar linguistic–experiential principle of iconographic language applies in the film language of Andrei Tarkovsky. Tarkovsky’s originality, which though cannot be fully “decoded,” can be examined closer in the light of the ascetic iconographic tradition that moulded him, as well as his cultural context, influencing greatly the film language of many other notable film artists including his predecessor Sergei Eisenstein.

Further, by the ascetic principle in filmmaking, this article refers to sacrifice as an artistic act, the ways in which sacrifice is represented and framed in film, and to film language. The three aspects are frequently intertwined: first, an artistic act, in the Tarkovskian sense, does not serve self-expression or self-elevation, but on the contrary demands a specific sacrifice from the one who creates, second, sacrifice is often a theme in the films – it is (re)presented as a part of the story or through the characters, or as a necessity of life itself, and it is the way it is (re)presented and framed that endows it with a specific ascetic dimension, and third, by the means of film language an artist communicates sacrifice on a different level, which in such a case becomes a method. For example, Sergei Eisenstein’s Battleship Potemkin – the cinematic landmark that captures the eponymous 1905 mutiny of a crew during the Russian Empire – sees the sacrifice of specific protagonists for and of the people, and it is communicated both through the representations of the act of sacrifice and a dynamic use of film language including lighting, camera movement, close-ups, mise-en-scène, and montage. In this sense, sacrifice is not communicated merely as a thematic idea (of the revolution) but is expressed also in cinematic language and remains part of the process of creation. Sacrifice is a way of being, a personal, social, and historical necessity without which people as community descend to the level of the masses (as in the example of “the Odessa steps”).^[31]

Sacrifice is “one of the favourite motifs”^[32] in Andrei Tarkovsky’s opus, most vivid in his last film The Sacrifice. It links all his previous films with motifs of home, family, and childhood, and the story of the film is centralised around the main character Alexander who in the face of an apocalyptic-nuclear threat offers to sacrifice “everything he possesses” in order to save the world and his family. Whether it is partly “an apocalyptic dream” or “an episode in the life of a madman”^[33] is not the essential question here, for upon awakening from a dream, the main protagonist Alexander “draws his own conclusions…and in them he will be no madder than…Hamlet or Ivan Karamazov.”^[34] His dream, as Turovskaya argues, is not a metaphor but rather “a paraphrase of general reality, expressed in terms of his own personal life.”^[35]

Alexander in The Sacrifice undergoes inner transformation but his sacrifice is not what Žižek sees as “symbolic withdrawal”^[36] from the world. On the contrary, it is the highest act of love that as such represents foolishness in the eyes of the world.^[37] Sacrifice is linked with sanctification that applies to the created, natural world as well as to the human body,^[38] but Alexander’s sacrifice, embedded in his prayer for the “life” of the world, is paradoxically “the ultimate value of existence.”^[39] It is a personal vision, Tarkovsky’s theology, where sacrifice is a necessity, but not the goal. Rather, it is a communion with others, where the fullness of love is the final revelation, the apocalypse.^[40]

For Tarkovsky, it is suffering and sacrifice that shapes consciousness (in theological thought as advanced by St Nektarios of Aegina repentance is the outcome of conscience rather than volition), and it is this spirit of sacrifice that “must constitute the essential and natural way of life of potentially every human being: not something to be regarded as a misfortune or punishment imposed from without.”^[41] Rather, the spirit of sacrifice is “expressed in the voluntary service to others, taken on naturally as the only viable form of existence.”^[42] Thus, the questions of whether Alexander’s deed is an “act of self-sacrifice” or not and if “the sacrificing self itself survives the sacrifice of itself?”^[43] should be considered in the wider context of Tarkovsky’s opus and thought. For Andrei Tarkovsky, sacrifice is an act “of exorcism…an emanation of his artistic will to act upon reality…change it by becoming a part of it and entering the world on the fully equal terms.”^[44] In that sense, The Sacrifice is one of the most “translucent of all his films”^[45] for it resembles “something of a fresco,”^[46] which surpasses moral messages. The “post scriptum”^[47] lies in the fresco-like composition of the film: “in its unity, its colours, its lapidary quality”^[48] which give the end (that coincided with Tarkovsky’s last days) the meaning of the new beginning. It is found in the poetry of the great poets who bear a “Pushkin-like” calibre.^[49] It is the occurrence of the sphere that circles the story and opens novel dimensions^[50] like in the frescos of the ascetics, as was the case with Andrei Rublev. Tarkovsky composes the “wholeness of time” in which the person within their specific historical time becomes central, but his whole opus and thought are based on sacrifice, which becomes a “direct force in life.” It culminates in The Sacrifice, his last film and a testament to his son, and represents like all his previous works a continuous “effort of resurrection.”^[51]

Thus, sacrifice is related to the true and only possible way of existence of a person and community: it is conveyed both thematically and through film language. Tarkovsky develops his own cinematic language by overcoming the “direct” forms of representation, the “logic of traditional drama,” and remaining in the domain of the “improbable” between symbolisation, representation, and estranged expressions to overcome cinematic metaphorism and symbolism.^[52] Natural images involving the details of the physical transcend the ontological precisely because the objects and occurrences are deprived of their symbolic function or denotation, thereby representing what they really are (river, stone, rain). As in the icons of Andrei Rublev, where specific elements of people’s characteristics emerge for the first time in Russian art, from their traditional folk costume and the depictions of faces which include Russian elements from everyday life^[53] to the suffering and resurrection. In Tarkovsky’s Andrei Rublev the idea of the people (нapoд) appears, as a story of both the individuals and the people of a specific historical time, rather than as an ideological or mythical concept.^[54] The people (нapoд) are the bearers of suffering and sacrifice but also of resurrection. Rublev’s life is a part of this collective historical experience yet remains a unique path of his artistic and spiritual transformation. The necessity of sacrifice and the ascetic principle in filmmaking are here most closely connected: as ascetic iconography conveys the wholeness of time in which personal and communal experience (of the people – нapoд) of past and present stand within the eschatological reality of the communion with God. The wholeness Tarkovsky’s cinematic space indicates a new beginning, the “post scriptum,”^[55] the resurrection, which is conveyed by the cinematic language, where the end signifies that which is off-screen, enveloping past and present reality with ontological reality.

3 Conclusion: Tarkovsky Reconsidered

While scholars understood that Tarkovsky refused to elaborate or “intellectualise” his own work,^[56] most frequently referred to as poetic cinema, he approached film in a traditional more “ascetic” rather than experimental sense. For film’s role for him was not to “put across ideas” or “to serve an example” but to “plough and harrow” the soul “rendering it capable of turning to good.”^[57] For Tarkovsky artistic creation does not arise merely from the state of opinion and logic because the artist serves that which is greater than himself.^[58] Poetic cinema for Tarkovsky is “the observation of the phenomenon passing through time”^[59] as cinema has like no other art “force, precision and starkness with which it conveys awareness of facts and aesthetic structures existing and changing within time.”^[60] Memory and time are crucial elements for the cinema of poetry: Tarkovsky argued that memory would not be possible without time but also that time is a “lived experience,”^[61] as our true inner-self, our thoughts and emotions flow into one another. While for Eisenstein, time is a matter of montage,^[62] Tarkovsky approaches time as lived experience that flows, accumulates, and is indivisible.^[63] It is in Tarkovsky’s cinema that “time thickens” and becomes “artistically visible” while space is “charged and responsive to the movements of time, plot and history.”^[64] Tarkovsky’s cinema is poetic in the most fundamental sense, according to Maya Turovskaya. Calling upon Viktor Shkovsky, Turovskaya argues that, unlike in the cinema of prose, elements of form prevail over meaning in poetic cinema.^[65] This means that “when the straightforward narrative cannot contain the pressure of ideas awakened by the story, the necessity arises to work in the ‘compositional’ poetic form.”^[66] Thus, in Tarkovsky’s cinema, film endings are not “the consequence of the plot,” as he does not work in the “plot-centred form”^[67] but the grand finale “emerges from the true elements of the film.”^[68]

For Tarkovsky, art does not replicate itself as every act of creation is related to the personal, it is not a desire for self-expression but rather a form of self-sacrifice as the most ultimate expression of freedom.^[69] Tarkovsky compared artistic creation to “a confession…an unconscious act that nonetheless reflects the true meaning of life – love and sacrifice,” considering it as closest to the highest forms of poetry.^[70] For him, artistic creation is an authentic act which only human beings possess. However, if Tarkovsky’s cinema can be considered as going beyond poetic cinema, that is, as Cinema prayer,^[71] it is perhaps the final result of an artistic act, of Tarkovsky’s life and struggle, the aforementioned “tension between Tabor and Gethsemane”^[72] of an artist, a personal podvig. For Andrei Tarkovsky (self) sacrifice was the only possible manifestation of ontological freedom – as the state of “joyful sorrow”^[73] – in man’s striving for eternal love. His understanding of the artist is metaphysical and almost biblical in its sentiment: to God’s call “(Adam) where are you?”^[74] an artist’s response should be: “here I am, Lord.” In that sense, Tarkovsky’s thought is ascetic, not in a rigid, moralising sense but rather in the sense of “seeing the world by denying oneself.” Tarkovsky’s films approach sacrifice as a means of transformation – metamorphosis. Whether the protagonists sacrifice their desires, possessions, or their own life, sacrifice always remains deeply spiritual, inviting viewers into re-thinking sacrifice as a way of learning how to love. By focusing on the concepts of sacrifice and the ascetic principle of filmmaking through Andrei Tarkovsky’s work, this article aimed to offer new understandings of the idea of sacrifice and ascetic language in relation to film language, bringing the research one step closer to novel reconsiderations of Tarkovsky’s films and the notions of “poetic cinema” and “cinema prayer.”