As a lifelong devotee of Soviet cinema, I’ve always been captivated by the masters who shaped its golden era—the directors like Eisenstein and Tarkovsky, the actors like Smoktunovsky and Samoilova, and perhaps most crucially, the cinematographers who painted the screen with light, shadow, and emotion. Among them, Sergei Urusevsky stands as a towering figure, a man whose innovative camera work didn’t just capture stories but infused them with a poetic soul. Born in the waning days of the Russian Empire and active through the tumultuous heart of the Soviet period, Urusevsky’s contributions to film are nothing short of revolutionary. His subjective camera style, daring tracking shots, and seamless integration of visual artistry with narrative depth have left an indelible mark on world cinema. In this article, we’ll delve deep into his life, his techniques, his collaborations—especially with Mikhail Kalatozov—and his enduring legacy, drawing on a wealth of historical context and personal reflections from years of immersing myself in the archives of Mosfilm and beyond.
Urusevsky’s journey begins in Saint Petersburg on December 23, 1908, a city then pulsing with the artistic fervor that would soon be upended by revolution. Growing up amid the chaos of the early 20th century, he developed an early passion for graphic design and photography, influences that would define his cinematic eye. He graduated from the Leningrad Art Industrial High School in 1929—now the Saint Petersburg Art and Industry Academy—and later from the Imperial Academy of Arts in 1937. His admiration for Pablo Picasso was profound; the Spanish master even sent him ceramic paintings, a testament to Urusevsky’s own artistic prowess. This fine arts background wasn’t mere preamble; it was the foundation of his cinematographic philosophy, where every frame was composed like a painting, every movement a brushstroke conveying inner turmoil or societal upheaval.
In the 1930s, Urusevsky transitioned into cinematography, starting at the Gorky Film Studio, home to pioneering works like the first Soviet sound film Road to Life and the first color film Grunya Kornakova. His early works, such as Duel (1945) directed by Vladimir Legoshin and Sinegoria (1946) by Erast Garin and Khesya Lokshina, showcased a budding talent for visual storytelling amid the constraints of post-revolutionary aesthetics. But it was the Great Patriotic War that forged him. Serving as a frontline cameraman on the Eastern Front, Urusevsky filmed the raw horrors of battle, realizing then that camerawork was his true vocation. These experiences instilled in him a profound humanism, a desire to capture not just events but the emotional undercurrents of human resilience. As a cinephile, I often reflect on how this wartime grit informed his later pacifist leanings in films like The Cranes Are Flying, where the camera becomes a witness to personal devastation wrought by conflict.
Post-war, Urusevsky’s career accelerated. Joining Mosfilm in 1950—the oldest and largest studio in Europe—he collaborated with directors like Mark Donskoy on The Village Teacher (1947) and Alitet Leaves for the Hills (1949), both shot in the harsh Siberian wilderness. These films honed his ability to work in extreme conditions, using natural light and vast landscapes to evoke isolation and endurance. His work with Vsevolod Pudovkin on The Return of Vasili Bortnikov (1953) and Grigori Chukhrai on The Forty-First (1956) further refined his style, blending socialist realism with subtle expressionism. By the mid-1950s, Urusevsky was a member of the Communist Party, committed to the ideological framework of Soviet art, yet his visuals often transcended propaganda, delving into universal themes of love, loss, and hope.
It was his partnership with Mikhail Kalatozov that catapulted Urusevsky to international acclaim, a collaboration that redefined Soviet cinema during the Thaw era under Khrushchev. Their first joint effort, The First Echelon (1955), already hinted at the magic to come, but it was The Cranes Are Flying (1957) that exploded onto the global stage. This film, starring Tatiana Samoilova and Aleksey Batalov, tells the story of Veronica, a young woman whose fiancé is lost to the war, navigating betrayal, grief, and redemption. As a fan, I revisit this film often for its emotional rawness, but it’s Urusevsky’s cinematography that elevates it to masterpiece status.
In The Cranes Are Flying, Urusevsky pioneered a “subjective camera” style, where the lens embodies the character’s inner state. Influenced by Eduard Tisse—Eisenstein’s collaborator—Urusevsky employed hand-held cameras for intimacy, long tracking shots for fluidity, and dynamic angles to convey chaos. One iconic sequence has Veronica running through bombed streets, the camera swirling around her in a frenzy, culminating in a miraculous overhead shot as cranes fly above—a symbol of lost innocence and enduring spirit. This wasn’t mere technique; it was empathy incarnate. The film won the Palme d’Or at Cannes in 1958, the only Soviet film to do so, and a Special Mention the year before. Critics hailed it as a revelation, breaking from Stalinist rigidity to embrace personal narratives. For me, it’s a cornerstone of Soviet melodrama, influencing everything from French New Wave to contemporary war films.
Building on this success, Kalatozov and Urusevsky delivered The Unsent Letter (1959), a survival tale set in the Siberian taiga. Here, Urusevsky’s camera becomes a force of nature itself, with sweeping pans across frozen landscapes and intimate close-ups amid blizzards. The film’s elemental fury—fire, ice, isolation—mirrors the characters’ psychological battles, a technique that prefigures Tarkovsky’s environmental symbolism in Ivan’s Childhood (1962). Urusevsky’s use of infrared film in later works echoes here, exaggerating contrasts to heighten drama. Though less celebrated than its predecessor, it’s a testament to their evolving partnership, pushing boundaries in location shooting.
Their magnum opus, however, is I Am Cuba (1964), a Soviet-Cuban co-production anthology celebrating the Cuban Revolution. Initially dismissed in both countries—too stereotypical for Cubans, not revolutionary enough for Soviets—it found redemption in the 1990s, restored by Martin Scorsese and Francis Ford Coppola. Urusevsky’s innovations here are legendary: gravity-defying long takes, including a famous funeral procession where the camera ascends buildings and floats over crowds. He invented circular rails for epic scenes, using infrared stock to make sugarcane glow ethereally against dark skies. As a cinephile, I marvel at how these techniques serve the film’s poetic propaganda, blending documentary realism with surreal beauty. It won the Archival Award from the National Society of Film Critics in 1995 and screened at Cannes in 2003. Modern directors like Paul Thomas Anderson and Alfonso Cuarón cite its influence on long-take cinematography in films like Boogie Nights and Children of Men.
Beyond Kalatozov, Urusevsky’s filmography is rich. He shot A Big Warrior Family (1954) with Yuli Raizman, Lenin in Poland (1966) with Sergei Yutkevich, and more. In the late 1960s, he turned to directing. Beg Inokhodtsa (1969), based on Chingiz Aitmatov’s novel, explores man-horse bonds in the Kyrgyz steppes, with Urusevsky’s visual poetry shining through wide-angle landscapes and intimate animal interactions. His style here advocates for camera movement as editing, rendering montage obsolete—a philosophy he championed. Sing Your Song, Poet (1973), a biopic of Sergei Yesenin, weaves poetry, nature, and biography into a lyrical tapestry, released just before Urusevsky’s death in 1974. These directorial efforts, though fewer, encapsulate his belief in cinema as an emotional, visual symphony.
Urusevsky’s techniques—subjective angles, hand-held intimacy, innovative rigs—stemmed from his art school roots and wartime grit. He drew from Tisse and Eisenstein, but evolved beyond montage to fluid, character-driven visuals. His influence ripples through Soviet peers like Yuri Ilyenko and extends globally: Tarkovsky acknowledged him, while Hollywood luminaries restore his works. Awards include USSR State Prizes (1948, 1952), Honored Art Worker (1951), and Cannes honors.
Personally, Urusevsky was pro-Communist yet artistically independent, married to Bella Fridman, who assisted on I Am Cuba. He died November 12, 1974, in Moscow, leaving a legacy that inspires cinephiles like me to see cinema not as mere entertainment, but as a profound human expression.
In reflecting on Urusevsky’s oeuvre, one can’t help but draw parallels to the broader Soviet cinematic landscape. During the Stalin era, films were rigidly ideological, but the Thaw allowed personal stories like those in The Cranes Are Flying to flourish. Urusevsky’s work bridged this shift, influencing the poetic school of the 1960s and 70s. Compare his fluid camera to Eisenstein’s dialectical montage: where Eisenstein collided images for intellectual effect, Urusevsky flowed through them for emotional immersion. This evolution mirrors Soviet society’s own thawing, from collectivist dogma to individual introspection.
Delving deeper into The Cranes Are Flying, consider the staircase scene: as Veronica spirals upward in despair, the camera circles her, blurring backgrounds to mimic vertigo. This isn’t just technical wizardry; it’s psychological insight, drawing from expressionist traditions while innovating for the Soviet context. Samoilova’s performance, captured in raw hand-held shots, humanized the war heroine, challenging gender norms in Soviet film. The film’s success abroad opened doors for Soviet exports, proving art could transcend Iron Curtain politics.
I Am Cuba‘s resurrection highlights Urusevsky’s timelessness. The swimming pool sequence, where the camera dives underwater seamlessly, prefigures modern steadicam feats. In today’s digital age, Urusevsky reminds us of analog ingenuity—building rails, using military infrared film—to achieve the impossible.
His directorial films deserve more attention. Beg Inokhodtsa uses equine metaphors for human freedom, with vast steppe shots evoking nomadic heritage. Sing Your Song, Poet intercuts Yesenin’s verses with rural vistas, a fitting swan song for a visual poet.
Urusevsky’s legacy? He humanized Soviet cinema, making it globally resonant. As a cinephile, I urge rediscovering his films—they’re not relics, but living inspirations.