Like wearing a hair shirt. Positively, absolutely, without a shadow of a doubt one of the worst movies ever. Pure torture. Zero stars out of ten. One long, tedious, labored, pretentious, self-conscious, theatrical, and leadenly artsy scene after another. Intended to be dreamlike and impressionistic, the soul bared, it is, instead, morose mush. <br /><br />Half-naked, father and son grope and whisper to each other like lovers. "Homo-erotic" is the point, loud and clear. OK, so what? <br /><br />Repeated more than once by the son is the line, supposedly lifted from "Lives of the Saints," "A father's love crucifies. A loving son lets himself be crucified." The parallel to god and his son, Christ, is heavy-handed, irrelevant, and bombastic, like everything else here. <br /><br />Some reference points to the theme of Russian filiality: "Mother and Son" (1997); "The Return" (Andrei Zvyagvatsev, 2003); "Little Odessa" (James Gray,1994); Turgenev, "Fathers and Sons"; and, of course, Dostoyevsky, "The Brothers Karamazov."<br /><br />Credits in English indicate intended international distribution, meaning that the excuse cannot be used that you have to be Russian to understand this mess. <br /><br />This is nowhere near as accomplished or compelling as Sokurov's last, "Russian Ark" (2003).<br /><br />As in his "Mother and Son," an equally powerful soporific, some scenes are filmed from distorting mirrors, though not as interestingly. The film is almost monochromatic, shot from start to finish through beige filters, making it as visually as it is dramatically numbing. A soft-focus haze only adds to the drugged feeling.<br /><br />An annoying soundtrack drones on, never shuts up, like a tape loop. An old radio constantly plays in the background. Russian Romantic melancholy swells endlessly as "themes based on Tchaikovsky." The presence of a "sound designer" (Sergei Moshkov) signifies, of course, that all those irritating little sounds, radio static, noises, distortion, and such, are "designed." <br /><br />It's hard to believe someone (Sergei Potepolov) actually wrote this thing. It all seems as arbitrary as traffic, as if improvised by bored actors, popping out of nothingness into nothingness.<br /><br />Modern art has finally succeeded in signifying the thing without being the thing, so that what we behold is the idea of the idea, empty as a shell, but not even a shell, merely the idea of a shell. Could one ask for a better definition of decadence?