Aleksandr Sokurov’s meditative Mother & Son takes place in a quiet Russian cottage, set apart from the rest of the world.  Only two characters, the nameless mother and son, ever grace the screen and the only sign of life outside of their own is in the train which occasionally passes by.  Placing itself squarely between the natural and spiritual worlds, the film is balanced carefully in limbo in that mysterious zone between life and death, dreams and reality.  Through stunning photography, which often looks like a moving painting, Sokurov has created a poetic elegy to a deep, inexplicable bond confronting its inevitable finale – a mother passing on and her son confronting life without a vital connection he has relied on for all his life.  They share the same bond and the same memories, yet death draws a metaphysical rift between them; a widening gap that not even their intense, pure love for one another can hope to stop.<>

<>Images are stretched, skewed and distorted through Sokurov’s anamorphic lens, perfectly conveying their tortured souls and mirroring the transition from conscious being to nothingness as an intimate connection moves inevitably towards the sudden crash of death.  The imagery is achingly beautiful and otherworldly, creating an environment that is at once insular and self-contained in reflecting the characters internal strife yet open to movements of nature.  Simple images such as wind blowing through a field or a cloud-covered sky contain a spiritual depth pointing beyond the reality they reflect, taking the viewer into the spiritual realm that few directors have ever inhabited.  Like his mentor Tarkovsky, Sokurov finds the poetry within nature and celebrates it in the most unique way.

<>As the film comes to a close, the son leaves his mother to mourn and confront the world without her.  Behind him, a train passes through once again - the only sign of linear movement throughout the film, suggesting that through all their suffering and struggles to come to terms with their separation, time does indeed march on.  And while that notion at first seems oppressive and cruel to the son, weighing upon his soul almost to the degree of crushing it, Sokurov’s careful pacing gives the audience room to contemplate and accept that our own temporary existence is necessary for us to enjoy and appreciate the beauty of the world and our own short time within it.  In a film that, by all means, should be depressing, Mother & Son never is.  Sokurov’s penetrative gaze into the human soul is too beautiful and moving to be considered anything short of inspiring and oddly enough, all three times I’ve seen it, I’ve left with a renewed appreciation of life and the world around me. <>