The Art of War
A documentary observes three Ukrainian artists who challenge Russian aggression with whimsy, but also guns
Porcelain War: whimsy amid the wreckage (Picturehouse)
The paintbrush, like the pen, is not literally more powerful than the sword. But the three Ukrainian protagonists of Porcelain War -- a ceramicist and two painters -- don't pretend that is. Making art is only part of their resistance to Russia's 2022 full-scale invasion of their homeland.
The film opens in a landscape that's pointedly idyllic. Slava Leontyev and partner Anya Stasenko, refugees from Crimea since 2014, stroll through an open field with their little terrier, Frodo. Leontyev makes porcelain figurines of snails, owls, miniature dragons, and such; these are then painted by Stasenko with elaborate, not naturalistic embellishments. The couple and their creatures -- whether furry or ceramic -- appear all too enchanted. Sometimes the porcelain objects even come playfully to life, animated in brief sequences by a Polish production studio.
Cut to a scene of a city on fire, and shots of planes and tanks. The carnage is nearby.
Porcelain War was co-directed from a distance by Brendan Bellomo, an American. But its subjects were deeply involved in the film's making. Leontyev is credited as co-director, and much of the movie was shot by Andrey Stefanov, the couple's friend, who abandoned painting when the war began and he unhappily sent his wife and daughters to refuge in Lithuania. Battle sequences -- and there are more than a few -- often derive from GoPros or drone cameras worn or operated by Ukrainian fighters.
At first, it seems that Leontyev and Stasenko are merely involved in a morale-boosting project. They distribute painted porcelain mascots to the troops and place them amid the wreckage as gentle rebukes to the invaders. Porcelain is also pressed into service as an overly explicit metaphor for Ukraine: "easy to break, but impossible to destroy," Leontyev announces via voiceover.
In fact, Leontyev also trains civilian soldiers how to use automatic rifles, and defuses the occasional landmine. Stefanov heads into action with a seven-person paramilitary unit headed by a young female IT expert. The group is named Saigon, oddly, in homage to Apocalypse Now.
Porcelain War isn't as harrowing as that film, even though the combat it observes is for real. Remarkably, Saigon suffers no casualties during the first year of the war, the period the movie covers. The same can't be said for the Russians, whose losses are vividly depicted, albeit from a discreet drone's-eye distance. Drones, one of them decoratively painted by Stasenko, both make war and observe it.
Ironically, Bellomo was considering making a documentary about Leontyev, Stasenko, and their collaborative art before Russia invaded Ukraine. There are hints of that possible film in Porcelain War, notably the animated moments and the punkily folkloric score by DakhaBrakha, whose live performance appears under the end credits.
Such a film probably wouldn't have won Sundance's Grand Jury Prize for U.S. documentary, as Porcelain War did. It's war, not art, that gives the movie its urgency.
Viewers will probably admire Leontyev and Stasenko for their dedication to continuing their artistic collaboration as the war seethes nearby. But they'll likely empathize with Stefanov, who decided he couldn't make art during wartime.
Porcelain War
Through Feb. 13 at AMC Georgetown, 3111 K St NW. www.amctheatres.com/movie-theatres/washington-d-c/amc-georgetown-14.