The 74th edition of the Berlinale once again delves into the tragedy of totalitarianism with Marija’s Silence, which had its international premiere as part of the Forum program at the prestigious German festival.
Directed by Dāvis Sīmanis and written in collaboration with Magali Negroni and Tabita Rudzate, this Latvian-Lithuanian production tells the true story of German silent film star Marija Leiko – portrayed with extraordinary talent by Olga Šepicka. After the disappearance of her daughter, Marija is faced with the choice between her career and her love for her niece, as well as the dictates of Stalinism and her own code of honor.
Sīmanis’ latest film once again showcases the Latvian director’s interest in 20th-century history, as previously demonstrated in Exiled (2016), The Mover (2018), and The Year Before The War (2021), which garnered attention at international festivals such as Rotterdam and Haifa IFF.
Here he investigates the Latvian Operation – a national operation of the NKVD (People’s Commissariate of Internal Affairs) which took place in the Soviet Union during The Great Purge between 1937 and 1988, against ethnic Latvians and Latvian nationals.
Masterfully and cruelly directed, the artistic choices and staging carefully construct a suffocating and bewildering atmosphere that is characteristic of any dictatorship. The camera follows the characters in a rather free and dynamic manner, while the dark black and white color palette evokes not only the past but also a sense of unease. This choice is particularly fitting considering Marija’s stardom was born from the magic of the silver screen. Furthermore, from the very beginning, the almost complete absence of words, which are barely whispered or rendered inaudible when they do appear, not only evokes the silent cinema of the early days but also carries a deeper meaning in the film’s title and ending.
As the story unfolds, it initially takes on a brighter tone and a greater sense of hope, which will slowly fade. Marija remains close to her granddaughter and begins collaborating with a theatre company that allows her to relive her most creative and experimental years in early 20th-century Germany when she worked with luminaries such as Murnau and Brecht and experienced a freedom that is denied upon her return to the Soviet Union. She could go back: it would mean leaving her granddaughter behind, as obtaining a visa for her would be a long shot. Her flirtation with a state official who is in love with her proves futile, as he too is ensnared by the very power he once served willingly and diligently. Thus, while initially, her return to her homeland is a way to overcome grief and perhaps rediscover long-buried parts of herself as long-neglected affections, her experience in Soviet Latvia soon becomes a Kafkaesque nightmare from which the only escape is to betray oneself and one’s ideals.
During a tour in the countryside, Marija’s silence begins to take shape when guards arrest some of her comrades deemed subversive. Like many tragic films about the horrors of oppressive regimes, the protagonists are faced with choices that will alter the course of their lives or the lives of others, forcing them to confront moral dilemmas. Sophie’s Choice (1982) is perhaps emblematic in this regard, as it is well known that the woman must choose which of her two children to save.
Towards the end, after Marija’s arrest for refusing to speak and betraying her innocent comrades and colleagues, the film takes a somewhat predictable turn in terms of narrative. The direction emphasizes the cruelty of torture and the heroine’s heroism, as she could save herself and reunite with her granddaughter, but instead chooses justice – a justice that can only be expressed through the silence that ultimately leads to her demise.
It is certainly not a wrong directing choice, but it places the ending on familiar ground. There are interesting elements, such as the actress’s imaginative escape – confined to a tiny cell and on the brink of death – as she seeks solace in the beauty of the stage remembrances.
If more emphasis had been placed on this very type of storytelling – considering the freedom of stylistic choices demonstrated by Dāvis Sīmanis – the perspective would have been even more intimate and deeply personal, rather than an external gaze on the cruelty of this captivity.
Furthermore, considering that Marija Leiko was a real person, it would have been desirable to include in the final credits not only tragically known facts about Stalinism but also a few words about Marija and perhaps her legacy, even should little be known. This would have allowed the film to move beyond the general thematic focus and delve further into the individual.
In any case, Marija’s Silence proves to be a film capable of portraying humanity in its multifaceted nature, exploring the characters’ virtues and flaws, and eschewing the simplistic dichotomy that often colors stories of this kind.
Thus, Leiko becomes relatable to all of us, in our small imperfections as well as in our moments of purest greatness.
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