Film Review: Liberation (Osvobozhdenie, 1969 - 1971)

‘You would all be speaking German if not for us Americans’ – Elon Musk’s recent tweet distils the enduring American exceptionalism framing World War Two, a narrative as simplistic as it is pervasive. This reductive view, echoed even by figures like Barack Obama (who erroneously credited the US Army with liberating Auschwitz), underscores Hollywood’s dominance in shaping global perceptions of the war, where D-Day eclipses Stalingrad and the Eastern Front’s carnage is reduced to a footnote. Recognising this imbalance during the Cold War, the Soviet Union sought to reclaim its historical agency through cinema. The result was Liberation, a five-part epic directed by Yuri Ozerov. Commissioned as both a 25th-anniversary tribute to Soviet sacrifice and a rebuttal to Western narratives, the film marshalled unparalleled state resources to assert the Red Army’s centrality in defeating Nazism. Though shackled by propaganda, Liberation remains a staggering cinematic achievement, unmatched in its depiction of the war’s scale and brutality.

Unlike conventional war films fixated on single battles, Liberation spans the Soviet counteroffensive from Kursk (1943) to Berlin (1945), structured across five feature-length instalments:

• Part I: The Fire Bulge (1969) dramatises the Battle of Kursk, where Hitler’s last major offensive collapsed under Soviet resistance. The film juxtaposes frontline brutality with political intrigue, including Stalin’s refusal to exchange his son Yakov (Ioseb Gugichaishvili) for Field Marshal Paulus.
• Part II: Breakthrough (1969) shifts to the Dnieper Offensive and liberation of Kiev, intercut with Mussolini’s (Ivo Garrani) capture and subsequent rescue by Otto Skorzeny (Florin Piersic)—a subplot highlighting Axis disarray.
• Part III: Direction of the Main Blow (1971) explores Operation Bagration (1944), the Soviet blitzkrieg in Belarus that shattered German Army Group Centre and propelled the Red Army to Poland’s borders.
• Part IV: Battle for Berlin (1971) and Part V: The Last Assault (1971) culminate in the Vistula-Oder Offensive and the apocalyptic Battle of Berlin, depicting Hitler’s suicide and the iconic hoisting of the Victory Banner over the Reichstag.

Produced to commemorate the 25th anniversary of Soviet victory, Liberation was a monumental state-backed project. Ozerov had unparalleled resources: tens of thousands of soldiers, hundreds of tanks (including meticulously reconstructed German Tiger and Panther models), and international co-production support from Poland, East Germany, Yugoslavia, and Italy.

Yet such largesse came with ideological strings. The Politburo mandated a sanitised narrative, excising early Soviet defeats (e.g., Operation Barbarossa) to focus exclusively on post-Stalingrad victories. Military advisors—many WWII veterans—insisted on glorifying their roles, inflating the runtime with gratuitous cameos. The film’s didactic tone, though unavoidable under state oversight, often undermines emotional depth, reducing soldiers to ciphers of socialist virtue.

Ozerov’s collaboration with Marshal Zhukov—then writing his memoirs—infused the script with tactical authenticity. Zhukov’s insistence on Mikhail Ulyanov’s casting solidified the actor’s career as the marshal’s on-screen avatar. By contrast, Marshal Konev’s dissatisfaction with actor Yuri Legkov portraying him in the first two parts led to his replacement by Vasily Shukshin, underscoring the political minefield of depicting living commanders. These revisions reflect the USSR’s fraught process of mythmaking, where historical accuracy bowed to contemporary power dynamics.

While Liberation lionises Soviet heroism, it unusually acknowledges Allied contributions—albeit selectively. East German, Polish, Yugoslav, and Italian co-producers lent legitimacy, with subplots like Skorzeny’s (featuring Romanian actor Florin Piersic) rescue of Mussolini (Ivo Garrani) or Tito’s (Nikolay Yeromenko) partisans at Sutjeska. Yet these episodes feel tangential, grafted onto the narrative to court socialist solidarity rather than deepen historical nuance. The film’s insistence on multi-national dialogue (actors speak Russian, German, Polish, etc.) gestures toward authenticity but often devolves into tokenism.

Ozerov blended grand historical events and behind-the-scenes conferences and political intrigues, shot in black-and-white, with intimate stories featuring ordinary soldiers, shot in colour, a structure influenced by his own wartime experiences. As a young film student mobilised before the war, he fought in the Battle of Königsberg and vowed to memorialise his comrades in a cinematic epic. This personal connection is evident in the fictionalised characters, like artillery captain Tzvetaev (Nikolay Olyalin) and nurse Zoya (Larisa Golubkina), whose romance channels Ozerov’s own wartime marriage to a medic. Yet this dual narrative often falters. Many fictional characters are introduced briefly before being killed off, leaving audiences confused about their relevance. Surviving characters, however, evoke emotional resonance—none more poignantly than the final scenes, where soldiers mourn fallen comrades even as victory nears.

Ozerov drew inspiration from Sergei Bondarchuk’s War and Peace, adopting its epic scale and historical reconstruction techniques for high-ranking figures. However, Ozerov’s execution feels derivative and lacks the experimental flair of his predecessor. His reliance on static camera work and overly formal dialogue hampers the film’s immediacy. Some critics noted that Liberation marked the onset of Brezhnev-era “stagnation” in Soviet cinema, prioritising propaganda over artistic innovation. The series was also subjected to reshoots and cuts, notably truncating a subplot involving a Soviet-French pilot alliance in the Normandie-Niemen squadron to baffling irrelevance.

Despite its flaws, Liberation excels in its battle sequences, which remain unmatched in scale and visceral intensity. The climactic Battle of Berlin, with its panoramic shots of soldiers storming the Reichstag, captures the war’s brutality without reliance on CGI. Soviet critic Rostislav Yurenev praised the “meticulously recreated” combat scenes, while even West German Der Spiegel lauded Ozerov’s nuanced portrayal of the German enemy. These sequences, though sanitised of Soviet atrocities (e.g., wartime rapes, looting), retain a raw authenticity that modern blockbusters struggle to replicate.

On the other hand, even contemporary Soviet critics showed little enthusiasm for Liberation, claiming that it lacked artistic merit. Yet its box-office success (ranking among the USSR’s highest-grossing films) and international acclaim in Eastern Europe underscored its cultural impact. Ozerov continued the war epic tradition with films like Battle of Moscow (1985) and Stalingrad (1990), but none matched Liberation’s ambition.

Today, Liberation can be seen as a flawed yet indispensable work. Its distortions—omitting Soviet missteps, inflating leadership roles—mirror Hollywood’s own historical liberties. Yet its anti-war epilogue, juxtaposing post-war European cities with numbers of each nation’s wartime casualties, including German, offers a poignant critique of conflict. While no substitute for scholarly history, Liberation challenges Western-centric narratives, reminding viewers of the Soviet Union’s pivotal role in defeating fascism.

RATING: 6/10 (++)

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