Review of The Death of Stalin
*** out of five stars
Currently on video and streaming
by Walter G. Tarrow
A historical reminder, and a cautionary tale, of the who, what, where, when and why of modern day Russia, especially considering our current leader’s tendencies.
From the dark recesses of the Soviet heart and the mind of the creator (Armando Iannucci) of the dystopian political HBO comedy Veep comes an adaptation of the graphic novel The Death of Stalin. Based very loosely on historical “facts,” the film, as did the comic book, conjectures what transpired amongst the Soviet power elite, the chief officers/members of the Central Committee and the Politburo, during the few days surrounding the death of the authoritarian Soviet leader Josef Stalin.
Opening with a live radio broadcast of a Mozart piano concerto, which, at the whim of the totalitarian dictator, and in a panic, fearful of potentially murderous repercussions, must be immediately repeated to allow the performance to be recorded and delivered to the Man of Steel, the film unfolds with numerous cruel, disturbingly casual, seemingly capricious, acts of state-sanctioned murder and torture.
One particular member of the Central Committee, Lavrentiy Beria (the acclaimed British stage actor Simon Russel Beale), chief of Soviet security and the secret police, is ubiquitously, almost omnipresently, meting out orders, from seemingly endless lists, perhaps from Stalin himself, perhaps not, of citizens, enemies of the people (hmm, now where recently have we seen that phrase tweeted?), to be exiled or executed. However horrid he may behave, he does have a soft spot for the ladies, especially the young ones, whom he reserves for his own personal use.
We’re next introduced to the major political players joking and playfully bickering at dinner with Stalin. We meet Stalin’s ultimate successor Nikita Krushchev (Steve Buscemi, Fargo), the soon-to-be interim Premier Georgy Malenkov (Jeffrey Tambor, Transparent), Stalin’s predecessor Vyacheslav Molotov (Monty Python’s Michael Palin) and, of course, the chief conniver Beria. Right off the bat these demagogues are seen as vying for Stalin’s favor, mocking one another, obsessed with petty insults and seemingly mundane details (Khrushchev keeps notes, later transcribed by his wife Nina, on what jokes work, or don’t, with Stalin), and behaving as absurd buffoons.
Stalin collapses after reading a spiteful note penned by the pianist from the aforementioned Mozart concert and delivered with the recording. Led by the always first on the scene, ultra-prepared (he knows all the secrets and where all the documents are hidden), Beria, the Committee rushes to his chamber, not to check on his condition, but to squabble over what, and who, comes next. Eventually they decide to call a doctor, but are hampered in doing so because seemingly all the good doctors have been executed or exiled (apparently they were plotting to overthrow Stalin). Those doctors they do manage to chase down determine that the Premier has suffered a stroke to which he soon succumbs.
What follow, the meetings of the Committee, the autopsy, the funeral, the succession of power, are handled as broadly satirical, grimly dark humored slices of life under a totalitarian regime. And, understandably, the weight of this dark matter is hard to manage alongside the attempts at humor. Sadly, and why the film gets only three out of five stars from me, The Death of Stalin isn’t really funny, it’s just tragic and very frightening.
What astounds me is the idiocy, the insanity of the sycophantic behaviors of those who have lost family and freedoms to the brutality of Stalinism. Countless grieving and emotionally distraught citizens flood the Russian capital to pay tribute to their oppressor at his funeral. Even Molotov, who, at the insistence of Stalin and his duplicitous lackey Beria, fingered his wife as a traitor, mourns him and, forever loyal, wishes only to continue on as he believes Stalin would have wanted. What madness this, this support of he who acts first and foremost against your best wishes, your very survival. How can this possibly be?
Grim stuff.
“Fake news?” We can only wonder…
Just keep repeating the words of Sinclair Lewis…it can’t happen here…it can’t happen here…
Time for a rewatch of Won’t You Be My Neighbor? to wash the bile from my soul.
