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Leto
***
Dir: Kiril Serebrenikov
Starring: Teo Yoo, Irina Starshenbaum, Roman Bilyk
(Russia, 15, 2hr 6mins)
Rockstar biopics are all the rage at the moment, with The Rocketman and Bohemian Rhapsody getting plenty of play at the box office. Taking a significant left turn on that is Leto, Kiril Serebrenikov’s anarchistic and laid-back biopic (although that’s a tenuous word to use in this instance) of Viktor Tsoi, lead singer and frontman if Kino, one of the totemic rock bands of the Soviet music scene.
I say tenuous, because the film isn’t really concerned with any sort of rise-and-fall narrative. There is a loose plot, wherein Viktor (Teo Yoo) befriends his idol Mike Naumenko (Roman Bilyk), who provides the younger songwriter with advice. The two gradually drift apart when Viktor and Mike’s wife, Natasha (Irina Starshenbaum) start a tentative relationship that doesn’t quite lead to anywhere, all over one summer in 1981 in Leningrad. But with the presence of a fourth-wall-breaking character called Skeptic who frequently arrives to remind us that ‘this didn’t happen’, you’re left unsure about exactly how much of this material is ‘for real’.
It doesn’t matter – as a hangout movie and an expression of the yearning for freedom in the USSR this is a supremely enjoyable film. You could read modern-day Russia for the USSR here if you wanted to, as director Serebrenikov, often critical of the regime, was arrested for alleged embezzlement of funds with a week left of filming left. There are possible parallels with Viktor and his pals navigating the censorious, moralistic landscape of Soviet cultural bureaucrats, though nobody in this film gets into any significant trouble.
One scene, with an administrator responsible for reading lyrics and deciding whether a band ought to be allowed to play at the Leningrad rock club around which much of the film is set, plays out like a forgotten Kafka short story. The administrator, surrounded by the band’s friends (all dressed up smartly), questions the band and Viktor (all dressed casually). Clearly frustrated that the band doesn’t promote positive Soviet values, she has to make do with explanations that the band critique lazier elements of Soviet society – to stop Kino sabotaging their chances of success, they’re asked to get drinks for everyone. They return with an overweight tray of beers.
Throughout, the forceful hand of Soviet censorship and authoritarianism is present (particularly in an early scene where one friend is hassled on the train), but perhaps not as strong as you might expect – there’s leniency and benign boredom on the part of officialdom, tasked with working jobs they don’t care for (hey, how many arts organisations in the UK are exactly the same?). Boredom has long been a vital cog in bureaucratic authoritarianism.
Elsewhere is the film’s music, with plenty of Viktor and Mike’s songs filling the soundtrack. As an introduction to Soviet rock ‘n’ roll and new wave for Western audiences, Leto works very well. Pleasing too are the stylistic asides which include hand-scrawled animations covering the screen whilst commuters on public transport sing Psycho Killer and The Passenger in thick Russian accents and super 8 shot scenes in colour punctuate the crystal0clear widescreen black-and-white.
Where Leto struggles is that it doesn’t go beyond its ambling structure. Taking place over one summer in the early ‘80s with a coda a few years later, there isn’t really an ending, just an acceptance that some things aren’t meant to be. At over two hours long, it takes a while to arrive at this rather basic conclusion, and whilst the journey getting there is immensely fun, it does leave you feeling a little underwhelmed. Despite that, Leto remains a stylishly fun biopic of an artist and scene that ought to get a bit more exposure in the UK.
words Fedor Tot
Out now in cinemas and on Mubi