Political satire has always found its audience (Stanley Kubrick's Dr. Strangelove is a prime example), but in this current climate, I think it's safe to say that the genre has more fans than before. While Veep existed well before the age of Trump, Armando Iannucci's brand of acidic political humor feels more relevant than ever. If Saturday Night Live takes broad swings at politicians and House of Cards paints Washington as a hive of scum and villainy, Iannucci is likely the most talented absurdist working today. But as Iannucci himself acknowledged in a Washington Post op-ed, it's increasingly difficult to write good satire when real life is so ridiculous. If we can no longer tell the difference between a CNN headline and an Onion article, where does someone like Iannucci fit in today's day and age? If anything, his latest proves that his take on the world of politics is more relevant than ever.
The Death of Stalin, Iannucci's second film (his first, 2007's In the Loop, was nominated for an Oscar for Best Adapted Screenplay), is a fairly straight-forward movie. It chronicles the aftermath of Soviet dictator Josef Stalin's sudden passing, as his underlings and fellow comrades fought for power. Each player has his own angle, and they'll do whatever it takes to seize control of the Soviet empire. There's Lavrenti Beria (Simon Russell Beale), a ruthless power player responsible for the deaths of hundreds of people, who hopes to use Stalin's children (Andrea Riseborough and Rupert Friend) to his advantage. Opposing him is Nikita Khrushchev (Steve Buscemi), the cunning strategist aiming to put an end to Beria's reign of terror. With Georgy Malenkov (Jeffrey Tambor) and Vyacheslav Molotov (Michael Palin) stuck in the middle, the duel of wits between Beria and Khrushchev will reach epic, deadly heights.
In another universe, The Death of Stalin is a grim, serious affair. But if you're even remotely familiar with Iannucci's work, you know that would never be the case here. The opening scene of this film is damn near perfect, setting the stage for everything that will come later. We open not with Stalin, Khrushchev, or Beria, but with a concert. Pianist Maria Yudina (Olga Kurylenko) and a symphony orchestra are playing Mozart. Everything is going swimmingly. Two unassuming guys, Sergei (Tom Brooke) and Andreyev (Paddy Considine), are in charge of the sound. Andreyev gets a call, so he picks up the phone. It's Stalin- he wants a recording of tonight's concert. Did they record the concert? Well, no. They didn't. The concert ends, but before the audience leaves, he runs out and begs them to stay. Some leave, so he orders his colleague to pull people off the streets- preferably fat ones, so they take up more acoustic space. The original conductor refuses to play, so they find the nearest conductor and have him perform in his pajamas. All to get a single pressing to Stalin. It's a story so ridiculous you just know it has to be true.
There's a sense of ever-increasing absurdity that is critical to the humor that The Death of Stalin achieves. Sure, the film delivers Iannucci's trademark blend of jittery camera work and filthy insults, a whip-smart combination of comedic precision and startling viciousnmess. But it's the feeling that each scenario is constantly being taken to new heights, going from something that feels mundane into truly outrageous territory. The ludicrous nature of the Stalin regime could have been the topic of an entirely different film, but by zeroing in on the days immediately after his death, Iannucci finds a kind of universal humor in the particulars of his successors as they compete for power. As brutal and insane and preposterous as many of these characters are, they're not stupid, and the film brilliantly displays just how deftly they manipulated each other to get what they wanted.
It's fun to watch these world leaders and political strongmen try to lift up Stalin's dead body in the most efficient way possible, or fight as they try to be the first car to follow his corpse during the procession. I can't lie that the sight of Khrushchev and Beria repeatedly chest-bumping is one so funny that I'll simply never forget it. Iannucci's portrayal of these violent, cruel men as bumbling idiots with petty grudges is just plain outstanding, a reversal of decades of history that either revered or feared these powerful people. And yet, while The Death of Stalin is satisfying on a scene-to-scene basis, there's something to be said for Iannucci's skewering of the entire Communist system as a faulty government that nobody even believed in that makes it all sting just a little bit more. As icons like Khrushchev and influential men like Molotov and Beria obviously pretend to be saddened by Stalin's death and to care about the ideals of the country, it's a naked reminder of just how shallow and ruthless all of this could be at its worst.
The Death of Stalin's cast is an eclectic mix of veteran comedians at the top of their game and unexpectedly delightful turns, transforming Iannucci's dialogue into a final product that feels vibrantly alive. The overwhelming British-ness of the ensemble will likely turn some people off, but with comedic performances this good, does it really even matter? In such a cohesive group of performers, it's hard to pick many that stand out. Steve Buscemi delivers the most fully-formed character as Khrushchev, a weasel-like toady who turns into something of a political mastermind after "tragedy" strikes. I find it interesting that Iannucci almost makes Khrushchev the likable character of this story, but it's easy when your villain is Simon Russell Beale's Beria. A pedophile, a murderer, and a heartlessly cruel manipulator all packed into one, Beale turns Beria into a perfect antagonist. Rupert Friend garners some of the biggest laughs as Stalin's moronic son, Paddy Considine is terrific in that instant classic opening scene, and Andrea Riseborough is excellent as the sole voice of reason in the room.
There's a little bit of a sense of "so what?" to the proceedings, especially as Iannucci's symphony of absurdity comes to its violent, stunning conclusion. Iannucci's greater point seems to be that beneath all of the hilarity and idiocy, these incompetent bureaucrats and soulless monsters have created an endless cycle of pain and terror in Russia. This pivot turns The Death of Stalin into something of a comic tragedy, which works well for the most part. If we're being honest, Iannucci's mastery of the ebb and flow of biting dialogue more than makes up for the lack of an overwhelming thematic point. Dark, cruel, and painfully real, The Death of Stalin is a pointed and wickedly funny satire. Its nihilistic sensibilities won't be for everybody, but for fans of political humor, this one is unmissable.
THE FINAL GRADE: A- (8.7/10)
Images: IMDb/IFC Films
The Death of Stalin, Iannucci's second film (his first, 2007's In the Loop, was nominated for an Oscar for Best Adapted Screenplay), is a fairly straight-forward movie. It chronicles the aftermath of Soviet dictator Josef Stalin's sudden passing, as his underlings and fellow comrades fought for power. Each player has his own angle, and they'll do whatever it takes to seize control of the Soviet empire. There's Lavrenti Beria (Simon Russell Beale), a ruthless power player responsible for the deaths of hundreds of people, who hopes to use Stalin's children (Andrea Riseborough and Rupert Friend) to his advantage. Opposing him is Nikita Khrushchev (Steve Buscemi), the cunning strategist aiming to put an end to Beria's reign of terror. With Georgy Malenkov (Jeffrey Tambor) and Vyacheslav Molotov (Michael Palin) stuck in the middle, the duel of wits between Beria and Khrushchev will reach epic, deadly heights.
In another universe, The Death of Stalin is a grim, serious affair. But if you're even remotely familiar with Iannucci's work, you know that would never be the case here. The opening scene of this film is damn near perfect, setting the stage for everything that will come later. We open not with Stalin, Khrushchev, or Beria, but with a concert. Pianist Maria Yudina (Olga Kurylenko) and a symphony orchestra are playing Mozart. Everything is going swimmingly. Two unassuming guys, Sergei (Tom Brooke) and Andreyev (Paddy Considine), are in charge of the sound. Andreyev gets a call, so he picks up the phone. It's Stalin- he wants a recording of tonight's concert. Did they record the concert? Well, no. They didn't. The concert ends, but before the audience leaves, he runs out and begs them to stay. Some leave, so he orders his colleague to pull people off the streets- preferably fat ones, so they take up more acoustic space. The original conductor refuses to play, so they find the nearest conductor and have him perform in his pajamas. All to get a single pressing to Stalin. It's a story so ridiculous you just know it has to be true.
There's a sense of ever-increasing absurdity that is critical to the humor that The Death of Stalin achieves. Sure, the film delivers Iannucci's trademark blend of jittery camera work and filthy insults, a whip-smart combination of comedic precision and startling viciousnmess. But it's the feeling that each scenario is constantly being taken to new heights, going from something that feels mundane into truly outrageous territory. The ludicrous nature of the Stalin regime could have been the topic of an entirely different film, but by zeroing in on the days immediately after his death, Iannucci finds a kind of universal humor in the particulars of his successors as they compete for power. As brutal and insane and preposterous as many of these characters are, they're not stupid, and the film brilliantly displays just how deftly they manipulated each other to get what they wanted.
It's fun to watch these world leaders and political strongmen try to lift up Stalin's dead body in the most efficient way possible, or fight as they try to be the first car to follow his corpse during the procession. I can't lie that the sight of Khrushchev and Beria repeatedly chest-bumping is one so funny that I'll simply never forget it. Iannucci's portrayal of these violent, cruel men as bumbling idiots with petty grudges is just plain outstanding, a reversal of decades of history that either revered or feared these powerful people. And yet, while The Death of Stalin is satisfying on a scene-to-scene basis, there's something to be said for Iannucci's skewering of the entire Communist system as a faulty government that nobody even believed in that makes it all sting just a little bit more. As icons like Khrushchev and influential men like Molotov and Beria obviously pretend to be saddened by Stalin's death and to care about the ideals of the country, it's a naked reminder of just how shallow and ruthless all of this could be at its worst.
The Death of Stalin's cast is an eclectic mix of veteran comedians at the top of their game and unexpectedly delightful turns, transforming Iannucci's dialogue into a final product that feels vibrantly alive. The overwhelming British-ness of the ensemble will likely turn some people off, but with comedic performances this good, does it really even matter? In such a cohesive group of performers, it's hard to pick many that stand out. Steve Buscemi delivers the most fully-formed character as Khrushchev, a weasel-like toady who turns into something of a political mastermind after "tragedy" strikes. I find it interesting that Iannucci almost makes Khrushchev the likable character of this story, but it's easy when your villain is Simon Russell Beale's Beria. A pedophile, a murderer, and a heartlessly cruel manipulator all packed into one, Beale turns Beria into a perfect antagonist. Rupert Friend garners some of the biggest laughs as Stalin's moronic son, Paddy Considine is terrific in that instant classic opening scene, and Andrea Riseborough is excellent as the sole voice of reason in the room.
There's a little bit of a sense of "so what?" to the proceedings, especially as Iannucci's symphony of absurdity comes to its violent, stunning conclusion. Iannucci's greater point seems to be that beneath all of the hilarity and idiocy, these incompetent bureaucrats and soulless monsters have created an endless cycle of pain and terror in Russia. This pivot turns The Death of Stalin into something of a comic tragedy, which works well for the most part. If we're being honest, Iannucci's mastery of the ebb and flow of biting dialogue more than makes up for the lack of an overwhelming thematic point. Dark, cruel, and painfully real, The Death of Stalin is a pointed and wickedly funny satire. Its nihilistic sensibilities won't be for everybody, but for fans of political humor, this one is unmissable.
THE FINAL GRADE: A- (8.7/10)
Images: IMDb/IFC Films
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