Apparently the downside of knowing something about Ivan the Terrible is spending ninety-odd minutes muttering "well, sort of" at Sergei Eisenstein. Blame my university reading.
Still, what a thing to look at. Faces loom out of the dark, and shadows dwarf the men casting them. Nikolai Cherkasov plays Ivan through posture, profile and a beard that could shelter a small village. The boyars hover like a nest of wasps in fur hats. Sergei Prokofiev's score does half the acting, with a choir whenever history needs underlining.
The trouble is I kept watching the politics. Power looks magnificent, necessary and faintly terrifying, often within one shot. Take the final procession: an entire people trudging through snow to beg their indispensable leader home. I could see why Joseph Stalin liked it while wondering what Eisenstein had smuggled in.
Everyone seems five seconds from announcing the apocalypse, and some scenes are so stately I wanted to give them a gentle shove.
Next time the historian stays home, and those shadows get a screen big enough to deserve them.