TRUTH lies in the detail. Nikita Mikhalkov knows this. Anyone lucky enough to have seen Dark Eyes and Burnt By The Sun will expect a visual feast. Dr Zhivago was a love story, with an epic backdrop. So was Cyrano De Bergerac. Add to these, The Barber Of Siberia, a tale of honour and passion.
Jane Callahan (Julia Ormond) travels to Moscow from Massachusetts in 1885, masquerading as the daughter of an eccentric inventor (Richard Harris), who needs money to complete the field trials of his monstrous tree-felling machine that will devastate forests and feed the pulp mills of an entire continent.
Her art is seduction and her business to elicit financial support from rich aristocrats within Czar Alexander's court. On the train, she meets a high-spirited group of young army cadets and makes particular friends with one of them, Andrey Tolstoy (Oleg Menshikov), who, over a bottle of champagne, falls in love with her.
Jane's character is ill-defined. She is not exactly a courtesan on a foreign assignment and yet appears, by European standards, to be unusually independent. Her flirtatious charm is hard to resist and yet there is something superficial about her, something lightweight. Being from the New World, her sophistication is affected rather than ingrained and, like anyone who uses flattery as a calling card, she finds it hard to distinguish genuine emotion from false feelings.
Andrey has the courage of a clown. He is not afraid to follow his heart, even if it leads into an abyss. He acts on impulse and with fortitude, often ending in farce, or trouble. He is loyal to the Czar and to the principals of the officer code. Driven by an unconsummated passion for Jane, he allows jealousy to crucify him.
Mikhalkov does not disappoint. Visually the film is stunning, recapturing a sense of wonder, even madness, that incorporates the soul of Mother Russia. The story is told in flashback 20 years on. This North American section is less than successful, not that it detracts from the whole. Moscow in winter at the end of the 19th century has a magic all its own.
The performances are worthy of Mikhalkov's grand vision. Ormond, sadly missed since Smilla's Sense Of Snow, is an intelligent actress, who finds strength beyond beauty. Instead, she finds strength beyond beauty, hinting at the anguish of a duplicitous nature. The film belongs to Menshikov. He is both tragic and hilarious, a foolish boy, a ruined man. Such exquisite acting defies praise. It is enough to be there and experience the unpredictability of a unique and thrilling talent.