The Lady With the Dog

Reviewer: Jeffrey M. Anderson
Rating (out of 5): *****

Anton Chekhov was unquestionably one of the great short story writers of all time, and though few of his tales have made the transition to the big screen, one couldn't ask for a better one than this 1960 film, based on perhaps his best known masterpiece, "The Lady with the Little Dog." Lenfilm Studio produced the film upon the occasion of the 100th anniversary of Chekhov's birth. Russian filmmaker Josif Heifits adapts the story in a lovingly relaxed style, focusing on faces and emotions, rather than regurgitating a bunch of dialogue or words; he creates images worthy of the original words.

While on a holiday in Yalta, married Dimitri (Aleksei Batalov) becomes enchanted with the sad, beautiful Anna (Iya Savvina), who is likewise married. They meet casually -- he offers her little dog a nibble from his table at the local café -- and they begin spending time together. This leads to a night of passion, accompanied by a candlelight confession from Anna; she hates her marriage but now feels cheap for having betrayed it. The lovers part, and Dimitri feels he can easily let her go (when he retrieves one of her fallen gloves, he simply places it on a fence post). Eventually he finds that he cannot. While throwing a party in his home, he glimpses a candle and flashes back to Anna's tearful confession, consumed by his memory of her at the expense of all the festivities around him.

It's hard not to think of David Lean's masterpiece Brief Encounter (1945), with its likewise married couple who find true love but are suffocated by polite society's bonds. But as graceful and as elegant as that film is, The Lady with the Dog is even more complex, lifting some of the societal restrictions and allowing that this kind of extramarital affair can and will go on. And going on is infinitely more painful and fraught with peril than Brief Encounter's clean break.

Indeed, The Lady with the Dog is no dry, dead piece of literature. Amazingly, Heifits somehow incorporates Jacques Tati-like rhythms into the film, including meaningless, humorous asides from passerby. From this tapestry, a grand, aching passion indirectly arises, more potent than if it had been created directly for the screen; it's a grand marriage of Chekhov and cinema -- with no cheating.

For some reason, this movie -- always held in high esteem -- has been difficult to find, so thanks to Facets for releasing it on DVD at last. Their fullscreen presentation has no extras, but it's still quite worthy. (Note: I've seen the director's name translated in various ways, including "Iosif Kheifits" and "Josef Heifitz.")