The Voice of Technology: Soviet Cinema's Transition to Sound, 1928–1935

Introduction

THE LONG TRANSITION

Soviet Cinema and the Coming of Sound

Jean Painleve wrote that the cinema has always been sound cinema. Jean Mitry specified, on the other hand, that the early cinema was not mute, but quiet. To which Adorno and Eisler replied in advance, the talking picture, too, is mute. Indeed, corrects Bresson, there never was a mute cinema. Besides, André Bazin noted, But not all of silent films want to be such, and so on. I throw out these few citations (out of context to be sure) to stir the waters of pat formulas; to this I’ll toss in another stone of my own in stating that the silent cinema should really be called deaf cinema.

—Michel Chion, The Voice in Cinema

IN SOVIET FILM STUDIES, IT has been common practice to categorize the coming of sound to Soviet cinema as a moment of crisis and failure, the moment when the Golden Age of Soviet avant-garde cinema and the montage school came to an abrupt end.¹ A technological development that had profound consequences for the formal and aesthetic characteristics of cinema the world over, the introduction of synchronized sound coincided with and was subsumed by the massive cultural changes that were taking place in the Soviet Union from the late 1920s and into the ’30s, making it impossible to separate the coming of sound from the chaos of the film industry, the consequences of rapid industrialization, and the new ideological precepts of Socialist Realism.²

Film historians such as Peter Kenez, Jay Leyda, Richard Taylor, and Denise Youngblood, along with many others, have documented the history of the Soviet industry’s conversion to sound, often by emphasizing the Soviet industry’s backwardness, its difficult assimilation of the new technology, and the political debates that surrounded the changes to the industry as a whole. As Youngblood notes, by 1930, the film industry had been almost completely disrupted, and as the times became more troubled, fewer and fewer movies were made. The drop in production was partially due to the fears engendered by intensified political pressures, but also due to lack of raw materials and the confusion over the future of sound. Artistically, writes Youngblood, the silent era had ended, but due to technological backwardness, silent movies would continue to be made in the USSR until 1935.³ Soviet directors, writes Kenez, had an opportunity to observe the birth of sound film from a distance, for the domestic industry could follow only with some delay. Technologically, the Soviet Union was backward. While in the West the first sound films appeared in 1926 and 1927, in the Soviet Union in the late 1920s the industry had only reached an experimental stage. At a time when the huge American industry had almost completed the transition, the Soviet Union was just producing its first sound film.⁴

Figure 0.2. Alexander Shorin’s sound camera on the cover of Cinema and Life [Kino i zhizn'] no. 14 (1930) (RGALI)

Nevertheless, as Andrey Smirnov points out, the first practical sound-on-film systems were created almost simultaneously in the USSR, the US, and Germany. Pavel Tager began his experiments with sound in Moscow in 1926, and just a few months later, in 1927, Aleksandr Shorin started his own research on synchronized sound in Leningrad. The first experimental sound-on-film program—excerpts from the film Women from Ryazan (Baby riazanskie)—was demonstrated on October 5, 1929, in Leningrad in the Sovkino Cinema, specially equipped with Shorin’s sound-on-film system. A few months later, on March 5, 1930, the first sound theater, Khudozhestvennyi (The Art), opened in Moscow, with a demonstration of a Combined Sound Program No. 1 (Zvukovaia sbornaia programma N1), which included four films: a speech by Anatoly Lunacharsky about the significance of cinema, March by Sergei Prokofiev from the opera The Love for Three Oranges (Liubov' k trem apel'sinam, Op. 33), Abram Room’s documentary The Plan for Great Works (Piatiletka. Plan velikikh rabot), and the animated film Tip Top, with music composed, among others, by Georgy Rimsky-Korsakov and sound design by Arseny Avraamov. In other words, while the conversion to sound certainly took longer in the USSR than in many other countries (with the notable exception of Japan⁵), the Soviet Union was nevertheless at the forefront of experimentation with sound—a fact that had consequences both for the theory and the practice of the new Soviet sound cinema.

In his seminal essay Soviet Cinema: Making Sense of Sound, first published in Screen in 1982, Ian Christie writes:

Looking at the frozen legacy of early Soviet cinema, inscribed alike in conventional and radical histories, the absence of any sustained treatment of the long transition to sound is striking. It is as if the brute industrial fact of sound, with its attendant aesthetic and ideological implications, constitutes a great disturbance for narrative history, or indeed, montage theory. Yet, the introduction of sound coincides with and helps to define the turning point in Soviet cinema. It is an example par excellence of the generally ignored intersection between the specificity of cinema and the histories—economic, technological, political, ideological—that determine and are in turn determined by it. Soviet sound cinema is effectively a new apparatus by the late ’30s.⁶

Indeed, the common dismissal of the Soviet film industry as technologically backward is one of the ways the narrative of the transition to sound has been curtailed from the start, with scholars focusing on the problem of conversion as one of playing catch up with the American film industry.⁷ A kind of technological determinism marks much of the scholarship on this period, with greater attention paid to the industry’s failures than to the films themselves. Compare, for example, how differently critics write about the slow Japanese conversion to sound than that of the USSR:

One major factor in the Japanese film industry’s successful survival of the transition to sound was its ability to convert to sound very slowly—over a ten year period—because of the popularity and strength of the indigenous variety of silent film. Film in Japan was never experienced by the audience in silence; instead, the screening of silent films was accompanied by the live performance of narration and music in the theatre…. It was not until 1935 that a talkie film won first prize at the Kinema Jumpo annual critics’ poll. In 1933, the four top awards went to silents (directed by Ozu, Mizoguchi and Naruse, respectively); and in 1934, an Ozu silent again won the top award.⁸

Of course, the discourse of Soviet belatedness is neither new, nor is it something invented by others to account for a messy period of transition. Soviet filmmakers and critics themselves felt that as the silent era came to a close, and with it, their preeminent position in world cinema, that they were falling behind the US and Europe.⁹ And while many of the avantgarde filmmakers of the twenties—Boris Barnet, Alexander Dovzhenko, FEKS members Grigori Kozintsev and Leonid Trauberg, Vsevolod Pudovkin, and, of course, Dziga Vertov—did make sound films as soon as they could, the most prominent Soviet director, Sergei Eisenstein, was not among them, and the film credit for the first 100 percent Soviet talkie went to a complete unknown: Nikolai Ekk for The Road to Life (Putevka v zhizn', 1931).¹⁰ Nevertheless, as I hope to show throughout this book, the films made in the USSR between 1928–1935, while Soviet sound technology was still in its infancy, represent something of a discovery. They are remarkable not only for their innovative, experimental, unexpected, and challenging uses of sound, but also for the way they reflect—by means of the new technology of sound—on the complexities of their historical moment, the transition not only from silence to sound, but from the twenties to the thirties, and from avant-garde art to Socialist Realism.

This book, therefore, aims to tell a different story from the usual narrative of Soviet belatedness. Rather, I argue that the long transition to sound gave Soviet filmmakers a chance to theorize and experiment with the new sound technology in ways that were unavailable to their Western counterparts, driven by market forces and audience demand. Many prominent Soviet filmmakers traveled abroad in the late twenties and early thirties, and early Soviet sound films were shown in countries such as the US, Germany, France, and the UK, in this way, forming part of the larger conversation about sound film that was taking place elsewhere. Moreover, Eisenstein, Pudovkin, and Vertov, among others, wrote extensively on the uses of sound in film—first theoretical, then practical—and their articles and pronouncements on the function of sound, music, dialogue, and noise effects circulated not only in Soviet cinema circles, but were also widely translated, and to this day inform the discipline of sound studies.¹¹ And while this book does not aim to be exhaustive, I do hope to show how the Soviet film industry’s transition to sound was handled by a number of different filmmakers, using a variety of genres, formats, and techniques, and what these early experiments with sound—many of which remain unknown—can tell us about this period of cultural upheaval, as the Soviet Union moved from the Revolutionary Twenties to the Stalinist Thirties.

THE COMING OF SOUND

How did the coming of sound change the cinema industry? What was made possible and what was foreclosed when Soviet cinema began to talk?¹² The 1927 release of The Jazz Singer (dir. Alan Crosland, USA) radically altered the art of cinema. Despite the many sounds—narrators, piano players, organs, etc.—that had been audible in the movie theater, the silence of silent film had been perceived as integral to the very art of cinematic expression, its distance from theater and literature in which the audible word predominated, its reliance on techniques of editing and montage, gestural language and the close-up (which brought to the forefront the full encyclopedia of facial expressions, as Béla Balázs would have it¹³). Everywhere, the coming of sound to cinema at the end of the twenties meant a thorough rethinking of cinematic technique, production, and distribution. Everywhere, cinema industries had to be reorganized to convert the silent screen into talking pictures.¹⁴

But in the Soviet Union, the introduction of sound coincided with a cultural, political, and ideological break of the period known as the Great Turning Point.¹⁵ Stalin’s First Five-Year Plan (1928–1932) began with a massive industrialization campaign that led, among other things, to a complete restructuring of the Soviet arts. Industrialization and centralization of the cinema industry altered the way movies in the Soviet Union were made, while the introduction of sound radically altered the way these movies were received. The coming of sound changed the Soviet cinema industry by making audible, for the first time, the voice of State power, directly addressing the Soviet viewer. The films of the transition all mark this ideological shift; each film stages its relationship to the technology of sound as a relationship to power. Looking closely at early sound films and the debates that preceded and accompanied the Soviet industry’s transition to sound allows us to understand how Soviet filmmakers handled the double bind of working with new technology within equally new ideological parameters. In doing so, these filmmakers created films that were utterly unlike anything that had come before (during the Golden Age of Soviet cinema in the 1920s) or after (during High Stalinism, 1935–1953). More vitally, early Soviet sound directors also made movies that were very different from what was being released in the US, Germany, Britain, or France—or indeed, in any other country whose transition to sound was driven by consumer demand and capitalist modes of production.

It is important to note that even the American transition to sound, while it was accomplished very rapidly, was never smooth, and the narrative of that transition has been told in a number of (often conflicting) ways. Donald Crafton, for example, offers a revised and very detailed history of Hollywood’s transition to sound, whose coming he sees as mainly a byproduct of the different advances in electricity—what he refers to, using one of the terms common in the twenties, as "a new form of electrical entertainment."¹⁶ Electric companies, along with studios and the popular press, argues Crafton, helped to create a climate of acceptance for the coming of sound cinema. They helped organize a discourse around sound, about progress and modernity, that made sound cinema appear not as a natural development from silent cinema, but as a new and completely different product, a product of a new era of technological change. In contrast, David Bordwell, Janet Staiger, and Kristin Thompson argue that sound cinema was not a radical alternative to silent filmmaking; sound as sound, as a material and as a set of technical procedures, was inserted into the already-constituted system of the classical Hollywood style.¹⁷ Moreover, Douglas Gomery has dismissed any notion of an upheaval during the transition, arguing instead that rather than chaos, the transition to sound by the US film industry monopolists was fast, orderly, and profitable.¹⁸

Yet, as James Lastra has argued, not only did Hollywood waver in its allegiance to representational modes during the transition, moving between discursive and diegetic forms, but the mode of representation understood to be characteristic of the very technology of sound was likewise up for grabs:

Was sound an effect? Was it narration? Was it clarifying commentary? Should it function as an added form of omniscient or restricted narration? Was it realist or spectacular in nature? Even its technical nature was in dispute. Was it closer in form and purpose to the phonograph, the telephone, or the radio? Each device, while useful for grasping some aspects of the sound film phenomenon, validated different techniques and implied different representational norms. So, before sound as sound could be inserted into … the Hollywood style, it had to be determined just what sound was and what its appropriate functions were.¹⁹

The received idea that sound hit Hollywood like a bolt of lightning with the premiere of The Jazz Singer—as exemplified by such classic films as Singin’ in the Rain (Stanley Donen and Gene Kelly, 1952, USA), as well as memoirs of prominent Hollywood studio executives—has been, in the last three decades, put under pressure by media scholars and historians. And it is clear that the transition to sound in the US was likely neither as earth shattering nor as smooth as the different accounts would have it.²⁰ Furthermore, other countries, such as Britain, France, Germany, and Italy (to take only the European examples) all experienced the conversion to sound at their own pace and none could accomplish the transition as quickly as was possible for the United States.²¹ The effects of conversion were not simply aesthetic or psychological (audiences clamoring for 100 percent talkies), but also financial. Hollywood’s retrofitting for sound may have cost approximately $10,000 per theater, in addition to exorbitant millions spent on sound stages and new theaters nationwide.²² Gomery suggests that the total investments might have ranged from $23 million to $50 million.²³ For the Soviet Union, caught in the Cultural Revolution and the First Five-Year Plan, without a native film production industry, and having severed its economic ties with the West, such costs would have been prohibitive. Indeed, had viable sound-on-film technology become available in the West only two years later, it is not clear that either the US or Europe would have made a successful conversion before the stock market crash of 1929.²⁴

The transformation of American cinemas from almost all silent to almost all sound, as Crafton, Gomery, and others have shown, took about a year and a half, and by the time of the stock market crash in October 1929, out-of-the way theaters and those servicing poor neighborhoods were the only ones still waiting for amplification.²⁵ Europe took longer, with the UK moving fastest, followed by Germany and France (UK exhibitors were 63 percent wired by the close of 1930; Germany did not top 60 percent until 1932; and France moved even slower).²⁶ Trying to stave off the Hollywood talkie invasion, Germany developed its own sound-on-film method that became known as Tri-Ergon, but was not successful in integrating it into German theaters until the spring of 1929, when two different companies merged to form Tobis-Klangfilm, and successfully sued for the sole right to sound film patents within Germany.²⁷ By 1930, when the USSR declared its independence from Western economic relations and trade, the Soviet film industry was already lagging behind the US and Western Europe in the conversion to sound. Beset by a lack of resources, massive bureaucratization, and rapidly shifting ideological imperatives (which greatly affected script production and approval, among other things), the conversion to sound took until 1935, with silent versions of feature films still being released as late as 1938.

There were many reasons for this. For Soviet cinema, the conversion to sound coincided with a complete restructuring of the Soviet film industry; what had been in the twenties a fairly loose assembly of studios and artists was transformed during the First Five-Year Plan into a centrally organized and administered body. As Vance Kepley Jr. has noted, during the NEP period (New Economic Policy, 1921–1928), Soviet cinema was generally heterogeneous, with a number of regional and national film organizations participating in a growing film market. By 1927, the Soviet film industry included some thirteen production organizations with a total reported capital of 21,238,000 rubles.²⁸ Moreover, under NEP, each national republic maintained considerable autonomy of its national film market. Each republic was allowed to create a native film organization, with a monopoly on film distribution within the borders of that republic, which helped to prevent colonization by larger distributors like Sovkino.²⁹ This period of relative autonomy came to an end in 1928/1929 with Stalin’s Great Turn, which signaled a radical change in the economic policies of the Soviet Union, the abandoning of the New Economic Policy, and the acceleration of collectivization and industrialization.

The years of the First Five-Year Plan (1928–1932) involved a complete restructuring and centralization of the Soviet arts, and a second nationalization of the film industry. To be sure, many of the conferences, meetings, congresses, and decrees passed by film workers at this time called on greater oversight by the Party. Arguments against Sovkino in particular stressed the organization’s commercial interests and its reliance on the import of foreign films, as well as its failure to make movies for the masses or to bring cinema to the countryside. Everyone agreed that sound cinema had the potential to be the greatest tool of influence over the masses.³⁰ The First All-Union Party Conference on Cinema Affairs held in March 1928 focused its attention on the problems of the Soviet film industry and the crisis in Soviet cinema: the failure to make movies accessible to the masses, the failure of the "cinefication of the countryside, the failure to become a self-sustaining industry, the failure to negotiate the needs of ideology and profit. Soviet cinema had to become an experiment, intelligible to the masses"; and moreover, it had to become a true industry by manufacturing its own equipment.³¹ In January 1929, following the recommendations of a special commission, the Central Committee of the Communist Party issued a decree about the reorganization and purging of current cinema cadres and the centralization of the film industry into Soiuzkino, creating a single Soviet-wide agency to oversee the film and photo industries. Thus, for the Soviet Union, the centralization and second nationalization of the film industry meant a change not only in the kinds of movies that were being made, but also in who was making them, where, with what equipment, and for what audience—from cinema as a mass art to cinema for the masses.

The massive cultural upheaval that accompanied the First Five-Year Plan led to a complete restructuring of the Soviet arts, including the cinema. As Kepley Jr. notes, this new nationalization of the movie industry did not mean that the Soviet central government took over day-to-day film affairs; rather, the government created a new bureaucratic layer, represented by Soiuzkino, to run the industry, which would be periodically accountable to government oversight. Soiuzkino was responsible for all matters concerning production of the movie-photo apparatus (for filming, projecting, lighting, and so on), movie-photo accessories and materials (films, records, papers, photochemicals, and so on), as well as all matters concerning motion-picture production, rental, and exhibition.³² Beyond politics and economics, the creation of this all-union combine translated into the massive bureaucratization of the Soviet film industry. The two-year personnel plan was to provide cinema with more than 7,000 new administrators, over three and a half times more than the number of creative personnel slated to join the industry in the same interval.

Other major transformations that directly affected the conversion to sound included the development and refurbishing of the USSR’s principal production, distribution, and exhibition facilities. In 1930 the USSR virtually stopped importing foreign movies, technology, or film stock. Slogans such as economic independence and Produce from Soviet materials with Soviet tools! dominated the discourse around cinema and the new developments in the acquisition of sound; Soviet sound cinema was to be home-grown and free of foreign patent obligations (although Soiuzkino contracted foreign laboratories for technical advice). Research on the Soviet-made Shorin and Tager sound systems dated back into the 1920s; indeed, Tager names November 26, 1926, as the date when he first began to work on sound-on-film technology, with Shorin’s first experiments following in 1927. According to Tager, August 2, 1929, marked the date of the first Soviet recording of sound footage on the streets of Moscow, and October 26, 1929, the first Soviet radio broadcast of recorded sound footage. Tager notes specifically that the Soviet Union was only one of three countries (the others being the US and Germany) to independently develop its own sound-on-film technology.³³

Figure 0.3. Pavel Tager and the Tagefon sound camera (RGALI)

Beyond the development of the sound camera and the method of synchronous sound recording, however, the USSR also needed to build factories that could produce film stock, cameras, projectors, and other equipment, as well as theaters wired for sound. A series of meetings at ARRK shows that sound production was still in complete disarray at the end of 1930, and that Soviet sound films remained in their experimental phase (sometimes, sound films were shot without an actual camera). A lack of functional equipment, including cameras, microphones, photo-elements, film stock, light bulbs, etc., as well as labs for playback (only available at Sovkino) or theaters wired for sound, all plagued the Soviet film industry. Moreover, studios and individual directors fought over who had access to the sound camera (preferably, Shorin’s, because the Tager camera—the coffin as it was affectionately called—frequently broke down, although it was used to film Ekk’s The Road to Life) and in what order. For November 7, 1930, ARRK was supposed to have access to ten projectors, but ended up with only two (one installed in Leningrad and one in Minsk). Their one sound camera was on loan from Sovkino, which might have taken it back at any time. Belgoskino had been working with a handheld model, designed by Okhtonikov and Mashkevich (which they claimed worked as well as a Shorin or a Tager); the first Sound Factory in Moscow was shooting Raitman’s The Earth Thirsts (Zemlia zhazhdet); Leningrad was ensounding Alone (Odna); Kiev had only one broken camera, which was used for Enthusiasm: Donbass Symphony (Entuziazm: Simfoniia Donbassa, a ruined film as someone from the audience noted); Vostokkino, Gruziia, and Azerbaijan studios were all standing by, waiting for their access to equipment.³⁴

Moreover, the USSR also needed a new federal system of distribution/diffusion of sound films in a multilanguage environment.³⁵ Soiuzkino would now need to coordinate the production and distribution of sound prints in line with regional language patterns. This had not been an issue with silent films, which could rely either on multilanguage intertitles or on a bonimenteur, that is to say, a speaker who interpreted the film for provincial audiences during projection.³⁶ Sound cinema required more complex plans for dubbing and subtitling to serve the USSR’s multiethnic population, which led to the question of which language Soviet cinema would speak.

As Nataša Ďurovičová has noted, as soon as the prospect of sound cinema began to be developed systematically, it revealed the problem of language.³⁷ For Hollywood, this meant that making films in just one language would seriously endanger the American cinema’s world market, which by 1929 generated between 35 and 40 percent of a major studio’s profits. Neither of the two solutions—subtitling (preservation of the original sound track, supplemented with written text) or dubbing (substitution of the original sound track)—would prove entirely satisfactory. Subtitling returned sound film to the recently abandoned use of intertitles (i.e., reliance on the written word to supplement the image); dubbing generated the problem of the alien speaking body—a dissonance between body and voice, with one actor performing and another one speaking on screen.³⁸ Moreover, with early sound equipment, maximum intelligibility was obtained only with direct recording of dialogue, and even for American film studios, dubbing was not a satisfactory option for roughly a decade.

Every country solved this problem of language in a different way. In Italy, as early as 1929, Mussolini’s government decreed that all films projected on Italian screens must have an Italian-language sound track, and dubbing immediately became a powerful state weapon in the reemergent nationalist movement. In France, the debate over dubbing took a different form, requiring not only French language to be spoken by French actors (that is to say, Hollywood studios could no longer simply produce a foreign-language version of a film and distribute it to France), but even the supplementary musical track added to silent film had to be rerecorded in France. As Ďurovičová puts it, the organic unit(y) thus posited between language and land was established as an important guiding rule for all subsequent delineation of the national cinema’s identity.³⁹

In the Soviet Union, since the early 1930s, NIKFI (Nauchnoissledovatel'skii kinofotoinstitut / the Cinema-Photo Research Institute in Moscow, established in August 1929) specialized in dubbing foreign films into Russian, but very few Russian-language films were being dubbed into other national languages, and no national-language films were being dubbed into Russian. Despite expense and difficulties in production, dubbing technology was seen as the only option for screening Russian-language films in national republics and national-language films in Russia. Subtitles/supertitles could not be read by audiences fast enough and required a high literacy level.⁴⁰ And the idea of national studios making films only in Russian, or in multiple versions, undermined the drive for native production of the different national cinemas.⁴¹

In 1938 a special commission of the Bakinsk, Tashkent, and Ashkhabad national studios produced a report on dubbing, which proposed following the example of France, where all sound films were rerecorded from scratch in a different language, thereby generating a second (or third) version of the film. To do this, the commission suggested that all Soviet films be recorded onto three separate tracks—dialogue, sound effects, and music—in order to facilitate voice overdubbing and eliminate the need to rerecord the music, use a full orchestra, and the like. The most prominent Russian-language films—such as Chapaev (dir. Vasil'ev Brothers, 1934) and Lenin in October (Lenin v oktiabre, dir. Romm, 1937)—were to be dubbed into every national language. Other films—such as The Rich Bride (Bogataia nevesta, dir. Pyr'ev, 1937)—could be dubbed into two to three strategic languages (ones that would be understood in several national republics).⁴²

Youngblood stresses the degree to which by 1930 the Soviet film industry had been completely disrupted: The pessimism in the film industry by the end of the decade, even before the purges were in full swing, was extraordinary … [The Soviet film industry] had not yet mastered silent film technology, nor produced film stock or equipment, when along came a radical new development which necessitated the complete replacement of existing equipment with sophisticated and expensive devices.⁴³ Conversion to sound became a top priority, allowing for a more direct transmission of party slogans, platforms, and ideological directives. According to Jay Leyda, Stalin was particularly interested in sound cinema, instructing Aleksandrov and Eisenstein and their cameraman Eduard Tissé to study European and American sound technology while abroad. Knowing about our planned trip to America, writes Aleksandrov in his op. ed., The Great Friend of Soviet Cinema, Josef Vissarionovich told us: ‘Study the sound film in detail. This is very important to us. When our heroes discover speech, the influential power of films will increase enormously.’⁴⁴

EARLY SOUND COUNTERPOINT

In 1930 the first Soviet sound films went into production, including Room’s The Plan for Great Works; and by 1931, the first feature sound films appeared on Soviet screens. Their appearance did not so much mark the end of silent film (an end that in any case was prolonged by the lack of sound theaters around the country, ensuring that silent films continued to play in Soviet theaters well into the 1930s, with all sound feature films released in silent versions), but it did bring to an end the silent film era, with experimentation for the most part now transferred from images to sound.⁴⁵ Jay Leyda has suggested that because of the longer period of transition, Soviet filmmakers were able to avoid many of the mistakes made by foreign film studios (such as the all-talkie craze), just as Tager and Shorin were able to avoid mistakes made by foreign sound engineers (such as trying to develop sound-on-disk technology).⁴⁶ I would argue further, that because of the longer period of transition, Soviet directors had a chance to experiment with sound to a degree that was unavailable to filmmakers in the US and Europe, working under the pressures of commercial cinema. As a result, they made remarkable films that reflected the chaos but also the possibilities of the new sound apparatus, and that were totally unlike those created in the West.

In their 1928 manifesto on sound, Budushchee zvukovoi fil'my. Zaiavka, Eisenstein, Pudovkin, and Aleksandrov welcomed the coming of sound and the first period of experimentation with the textures (faktura) of sound, but described the second period that would quickly follow as one of a loss of innocence (uviadanie devstvennosti).⁴⁷ Dismissing talking pictures as those in which sound is recorded in a natural manner, synchronizing exactly with the movement on the screen and creating a certain ‘illusion’ of people talking, objects making noise, etc., this first period of sensations (sensatsii) though innocent in itself, would lead to cinema’s automatic (avtomaticheskogo) uses of sound for dramas of high culture and other photographed presentations of a theatrical order. The mere adhesion (prikleivanie) of sound and montage fragments would increase the fragments’ inertia and their independent significance, going against the idea of montage as a juxtaposition of film fragments. We might note the degree to which the filmmakers’ statement is inflected by the notion of the materiality/texture of sound, which is juxtaposed to automatic uses of sound prevalent in Hollywood talkies.⁴⁸ To avoid this passive approach to sound, the directors argued instead for contrapuntal uses of sound that would be in sharp discord with the visual image. Only such an assault (shturm) of cinema by sound would produce the correct feelings (oshchushcheniia),⁴⁹ liberating avant-garde cinema from a series of blind alleys, such as the need for intertitles and long establishing shots to explain and situate the film’s action, both of which interrupt and slow down the rhythm of the film. Sound used as counterpoint and as an element of montage—in other words, as an independent variable combined with the visual image—would ensure that sound cinema would become an even more powerful means of persuasion and influence on the viewer.

Adrian Piotrovsky, the head of the Lenfilm script department, similarly called for a revolutionary approach to sound film in his 1929 editorial in the journal Zhizn' iskusstva called Tonfil'ma (Sound film).⁵⁰ Piotrovsky stressed in particular the ways Soviet cinema must be different from American and European sound film, whose direction in 1929 was toward dialogue and the reproduction of naturalistic sounds effects. Specifically, he mentions the unheard of and unprecedented