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Dis­cov­er the sole hor­ror film pro­duced dur­ing the Sovi­et era

15 Mar 2021

Words by Anton Bitel

Image shows a theatrical scene with a woman in a white dress performing on a stage, and a man sitting at a desk in the foreground. The stage is surrounded by dark, shadowy figures. The scene has a moody, dramatic atmosphere with deep blues and shadows.
Image shows a theatrical scene with a woman in a white dress performing on a stage, and a man sitting at a desk in the foreground. The stage is surrounded by dark, shadowy figures. The scene has a moody, dramatic atmosphere with deep blues and shadows.
Viy, Kon­stan­tin Ershov and Georgiy Kropachyov’s 1967 Goth­ic chiller, boasts spec­tac­u­lar visu­als and effects.

The Russ­ian author Niko­lai Gogol wrote his novel­la Viy’ as part of a col­lec­tion of short sto­ries first pub­lished in 1835. It is a bawdy tale of the super­nat­ur­al, with horny witch­es, errant holy men and an army of noc­tur­nal crea­tures – the kind of nar­ra­tive that you might expect to find in Apuleius’ Gold­en Ass’, Geof­frey Chaucer’s The Can­ter­bury Tales’ or Jan Potocki’s The Man­u­script Found in Saragossa’.

In 1909, writer/​director Vasilis Gon­charov adapt­ed Gogol’s con­te into a short film of the same name that was also Russia’s first hor­ror film. Goncharov’s Viy is now lost (along with oth­er silent adap­ta­tions from 1912 and 1916), but a fea­ture-length ver­sion, also called Viy and made in 1967, would become the first and only hor­ror film of the entire Sovi­et era, as well as an influ­en­tial part of the genre’s imaginarium.

It is the direc­to­r­i­al debut of Kon­stan­tin Ershov and Georgiy Kropachy­ov (the lat­ter already had cred­its on oth­er films as a pro­duc­tion design­er and set dec­o­ra­tor), although it seems like­ly that the more expe­ri­enced Alek­san­dr Ptushko, artis­tic direc­tor on Viy, was large­ly respon­si­ble for the the film’s extra­or­di­nary man­nered visu­als and stylised colours.

On a sum­mer break, Khoma Bru­tus (Leonid Kurav­ly­ov) and two oth­er sem­i­nary stu­dents wan­der off track one evening in the Ukrain­ian steppes and end up at a farm­house whose own­er, an elder­ly woman, reluc­tant­ly agrees to put them up. Lat­er that night she vis­its Khoma where he is sleep­ing, and takes him for a ride in more than one sense, forc­ing her­self upon him but also, as a witch, steer­ing him through the air.

His sup­posed priest­ly chasti­ty, her very advanced years, and some very sado­masochis­tic, psy­cho­sex­u­al imagery, all give this scene a night­mar­ish qual­i­ty, while the fact that the old woman is played by a man (Niko­lay Kutu­zov) only adds to the sense that we are bear­ing covert wit­ness to some­thing very trans­gres­sive. This noc­tur­nal flight of fan­cy, unfold­ing in an ambigu­ous space between the real and the oneir­ic, will end with Khoma vicious­ly beat­ing the old woman with a stick to with­in an inch of her life, and see­ing her trans­form into a much younger woman (Natalya Varley).

Woman lying on grass with eyes closed, long dark hair.

On this irra­tional note, the film’s sec­ond act begins. Back at the sem­i­nary, the Rec­tor (Pyotr Veskl­yarov) informs Khoma that, on her deathbed, the daugh­ter of a pow­er­ful Sot­nik (Alek­sey Glazyrin) has request­ed Khoma by name to give her the last rites. Reluc­tant­ly tag­ging along with some Cos­sacks to the Sotnik’s vil­lage, and get­ting dead drunk on the way, Khoma arrives to learn that the daugh­ter has in the mean­time died. The Sot­nik com­pels Khoma, with the threat of a whip­ping and the promise of a gold­en reward, to keep vig­il for three nights over his daughter’s corpse in the vil­lage church.

The film’s third act com­pris­es the spooky events of those three nights, as Khoma, locked inside the wood­en church, must face up to the revenant, venge­ful witch’s esca­lat­ing assaults on his psy­che and ulti­mate­ly on his per­son. Here the rit­u­al num­ber three keeps recur­ring: there are three acts, three trav­el­ling stu­dents, three adult storks spot­ted stand­ing in a nest, three ver­sions of the same Cos­sack seen in Khoma’s drunk­en hal­lu­ci­na­tions, and three increas­ing­ly ter­ri­fy­ing nights spent in the church. Mean­while, it remains unclear whether Khoma is vic­tim mere­ly to his own over­ac­tive imag­i­na­tion and guilt-tinged fan­tasies as he sleeps first in the old woman’s farm­house and then in the church, or whether he is tru­ly being sub­ject­ed to super­nat­ur­al attacks.

Much clear­er are Khoma’s fail­ings as a study to become a man of God. The craven novice con­stant­ly vio­lates his priest­ly respon­si­bil­i­ties: he smokes, takes snuff and drinks, even while per­form­ing sacred rites in the church; he is also a wom­an­is­er, and if he at first denies this, that is only because he is also a liar. May God strike me dead if I’m lying,” he declares to the Sot­nik, insist­ing that he has nev­er met the daugh­ter before. But he knows, and we know, that he had in fact met her only a few nights earlier.

This lie gives the dead­ly curse that Khoma calls down upon him­self a doom-laden dimen­sion. What­ev­er real­ly does hap­pen to Khoma with­in the hid­den con­fines of the church, his fate seems sealed. If by noth­ing else, Khoma is haunt­ed by his own con­science, and ter­ri­fied of the infer­nal pun­ish­ments that await his many offences. It’s not the sort of place you can escape from,” one of the Cos­sacks tells Khoma as the young stu­dent tries to flee the village.

Indeed, loca­tion in Viy rarely con­forms to the ratio­nal, while a per­va­sive air of fatal­ism leaves the impres­sion that from begin­ning to end there is lit­tle that Khoma can do to elude what is com­ing to him. His night ter­rors, whether the result of intox­i­cat­ed delir­i­um or actu­al oth­er­world­ly inva­sion, cli­max on the third watch in a sur­re­al pan­de­mo­ni­um of mon­strous make­up, macabre mod­els and shad­ow play.

At the cen­tre of this dev­il­ish host and mak­ing even the local vam­pires and spir­its cow­er in fright is Viy, who sees every­thing with his big round eyes. Viy is the per­fect crea­ture to reflect the anx­i­eties of a trainee priest whose per­verse inner life and secret desires are best kept unseen and out of the light of day. A cyn­i­cal coda sug­gests that oth­er sem­i­nary stu­dents are no bet­ter than Khoma in the illic­it, earth­ly appetites that define the fee­ble human­i­ty beneath their monkly robes.

Per­haps they too shall even­tu­al­ly fall prey to a hell­ish reck­on­ing for their own crimes and mis­de­meanours, as they are undone by their own con­flict­ed sense of guilt. Mean­while, Ershov and Kropachy­ov offer us all a glimpse of what such long dark nights of the soul might look like from the inside.

Viy is avail­able in a lim­it­ed edi­tion two-disc Blu-ray (also includ­ing A Holy Place, Djord­je Kadijevic’s Ser­bian ver­sion from 1990 of the same Gogol sto­ry), as part of Eureka!’s The Mas­ters Of Cin­e­ma Series on 15 March.

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