TSPDT placing: #538
Directed by: Andrei Tarkovsky, Eduard Abalov (uncredited)
Written by: Vladimir Bogomolov (story) (screenplay), Mikhail Papava (writer), Andrei Konchalovsky (uncredited), Andrei Tarkovsky (uncredited)
Starring: Nikolay Burlyaev, Valentin Zubkov, Yevgeni Zharikov, Stepan Krylov, Nikolai Grinko, Valentina Malyavina
WARNING: Plot and/or ending details may follow!!!
Andrei Tarkovsky landed his first major project {after his diploma film, The Steamroller and the Violin (1961)} when original director Eduard Abalov was fired from the production, his work deemed unsatisfactory and unusable. Given that Ivan's Childhood (1962) was initiated by other artists, one gets the sense that perhaps Tarkovsky's heart wasn't entirely in this one – it feels like a substantially less-personal film than Andrei Rublev (1969) or Stalker (1979), the other two I've seen so far. Nevertheless, I think I loved it even more than both of these. In his ability to establish mood, Tarkovsky was unsurpassed by any except perhaps Kubrick, boundless emotion communicated through a single beautifully-captured shot. The relatively straightforward narrative and themes of Ivan's Childhood remove the nagging ambiguity of which the director was so very fond, allowing the viewer to simply immerse themselves in the overwhelming atmosphere. Perhaps it'll prove the least durable of Tarkovsky's efforts, but, for now, I have to say that I adored every moment.
The loss of childhood innocence is a common motif in war-themed pictures, and seems particularly prevalent in Soviet cinema – for the finest example, look towards than Elem Klimov's harrowing Come and See (1985). In this film, a close forerunner, Nikolay Burlyaev plays Ivan, a twelve-year-old orphan employed as a Russian spy on the Eastern Front. After his bright, idealistic childhood is yanked away by German soldiers, Ivan commits himself to the Soviet cause, refusing to attend school in favour of infiltrating enemy territory to gather strategic information. Stubborn and weary, he tramps cautiously through the clammy river swamps, keeping low to avoid detection. Even back in Russian territory, Ivan no longer bears any traits of the lively youth he once was. He resents the interference of adults, even those who tentatively regard him as an adopted son. The film's title, Ivan's Childhood, notably refers only to the vivid flashbacks of Ivan's earlier years; from the moment his mother fell from a bullet, his childhood was over.
9/10
Currently my #6 film of 1962:
1) Lawrence of Arabia (David Lean)
2) La Jetée {The Pier} (Chris Marker)
3) Le Procès {The Trial} (Orson Welles)
4) To Kill A Mockingbird (Robert Mulligan)
5) Birdman of Alcatraz (John Frankenheimer)
6) Ivanovo detstvo {Ivan’s Childhood} (Andrei Tarkovsky, Eduard Abalov)
7) The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance (John Ford)
8) Cape Fear (J. Lee Thompson)
9) Panic in Year Zero! (Ray Milland)
10) The Manchurian Candidate (John Frankenheimer)
The Wages of Fear contains two particular sequences that rival anything Hitchcock ever did in terms of suspense. In the first, to which I briefly alluded above, a small amount of nitroglycerine is utilised to demolish a huge boulder blocking the road, the slightest lapse in concentration certain to lead to disaster. In the second, Mario (Yves Montand) and Jo (Charles Vanel) wallow pathetically in a deepening pool of crude oil, drowning in the black tar that represents the United States' rampant capitalistic greed {the motif of oil epitomising greed is not an uncommon one in cinema, and most recently turned up in P.T. Anderson's There Will Be Blood (2006)}. What I think prevents Clouzot's film from being truly brilliant is the opening half-hour or so, which is not only unsuspenseful, but damn near uninteresting. Of course, I suppose, it's important to note the changes that take place in the characters both before and after their new job – the dominating Joe quickly reveals his cowardice, and the sycophantic Mario takes over the role of boss – but Hitchcock, at least, would have made these introductions far more compelling. 
Towards the film's ending, I have conflicting emotions. On the one hand, it is a wonderful masterwork of cinematography and editing, as Mario's driving is intercut with the waltz of his acquaintances back in town, to the tune of Strauss' "The Blue Danube." There's an astonishing momentum to the camera movements; we foresee what is about to happen at least a minute before Montand's character does, but are powerless to stop it. He carries on his Dance Macabre (a figurative "waltz with death") until he loses control of the truck, begetting a spectacular, fiery plummet over the cliff edge. On the other hand, the entire incident – however satisfying filmically – doesn't seem like a natural progression of the narrative, possessing the air of a conclusion affixed only to achieve a surefire audience reaction. Unfortunately, similar cases of characters acting illogically litter the story, providing what might be described as mere cheap thrills: Mario continues to reverse the truck even after being told to stop, and Luigi, at one point, ludicrously decides to run towards an impending explosion rather than away from it.
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