The Movie:

Faust is both an aggravating and inspiring experience. Hours after sitting through its 140-minute power session of philosophy doled out by a gleefully grotesque visual approach, I'm pretty certain I've seen something unique and special, I just can't really put my finger on how and why.

On a purely technical level, Faust represents a special achievement that sets it apart from other cinematic fever dreams attempted by auteurs of oppressive pessimism like Tarkovski and Lynch. Shot by legendary DP Bruno Delbonnel (Inside Llewyn Davis, Amelie) with a 1:37:1 standard academy aspect ratio, the look of Faust resembles the legendary early silent films from Germany's golden era of 1920-1930, although the production design doesn't present a hint of expressionism.

The way the film is presented on home video itself (Not sure how it was shown in theatres) is evocative of early silent films, with the corners of the screen smoothed out to give it that turn of the 20^th century feeling. Just like silent films of that era, each sequence carries a distinct tint of color that permeates the screen. Delbonnel is a master at capturing earth tones and Faust's look is oppressively gray and yellow, perfectly in tune with the tale of a man who has lost his desire for life so much that he will sell his soul to the devil in order to feel anything.

Faust was directed by Alexander Sokurov (The Russian Ark) as the last chapter of his "Tetralogy of Power", following three films depicting the lives of powerful yet despotic historical figures. He covered Hitler with Moloch, Lenin with Taurus and Hirohito with The Sun. It's quite odd that he would pick a fictional character and story, in this case Goethe's infamous play with the same name, to finish this series. Yet if we consider the fact that this is a story about a man who desires to hold absolute power over his own mind and soul instead of the minds of others, it's a perfect bookend that inverts the issue of power to the inside.

Adapted for the screen by Sokurov and Marina Koreneva, this epic retelling sticks pretty close to Goethe's source material and it even includes sections usually taken out from film adaptations because they're deemed to be too abstract. Doctor Faust is portrayed by Johannes Zeiler as a shell of a man convicted by his convictions about the material world. The film opens with a graphic depiction of an autopsy as Faust and his assistant Wagner (Georg Friedrich) discuss the value of the human soul. Faust takes one look at the dead body lying in front of them and is convinced that the material world is where everything ends, and therefore his soul is worthless.

Yet Faust cannot derive any pleasure out of the material world either. Until a mysterious moneylender (Anton Adasinsky), hiding a grotesque body sporting a tail and missing any genitalia underneath a getup that's reminiscent of an exceptionally cordial undertaker, shows him that even if a metaphysical sense of good doesn't exist, then evil surely does, and that Faust should take advantage of certain earthly pleasures to his heart's content. Of course even before we get a peek at the moneylender's nightmare-fuel body as he frolics with nymphs in what appears to be a Turkish bath from hell during one of the most insanely irreverent sequences I've seen in years, it's easy for anyone to guess that he's the devil.

The moneylender eventually leads Faust into the delicate hands of the lovely young maiden Margarete (Isolda Dychauk) after forcing his hand to murder her brother. Faust eventually confuses love with lust and agrees to sell his soul to the moneylender for Margarete's love. The "love" story is what's used in all of the marketing blurbs for the film but it's a minor part of the big picture. The majority of the running time consists of Faust and the moneylender engaging in philosophical conversations a freshman philosophy major at a state university would find overbearing.

Despite its oppressively nihilistic look and tone, Faust overflows with a shocking amount of whimsy, most of them credited to Anton Adasinsky's equally clear-minded and mischievous take on the moneylender. Sokurov's sometimes breezy and non-chalant approach to such gloomy material reminded me of Ingmar Bergman's work during the late 50s.

The Blu-Ray:

Video:

The 4:3, 1080p presentation of Faust is gorgeous to look at, as long as one understands the visual intent from Sokurov and DP Bruno Delbonnel, outlined during my review of the film above. The transfer is devoid of any noticeable video noise and represents the best possible home video version of the film.

Audio:

The Blu-Ray menu as well as the information on the back of the box states that the film is in German, yet they don't specify any other details. The display information during playback states that the track is 5.1 DTS-HD but I can swear that the original mix of Faust was in mono. There isn't any surround presence and I couldn't notice any panning on the front speakers. The film's mix is understated and very quiet. The dialogue and the occasional music is heard clearly but perhaps the intention was for the audience to pay more attention to the visuals, as one would with a silent film. Long story short, get ready to crank up the volume while watching Faust.

Extras:

The greatest trick the Faust Blu-Ray ever pulled was to convince people to pay full price for a Blu-Ray without any extras. We get nothing, not even a trailer.

Final Thoughts:

Even though it's so rich with ideas and is innovative, immersive, risk-taking and bold from the first frame to the last, I can't imagine anyone looking forward to sitting through Faust more than once. Of course that doesn't mean it's not worth your time. Most of us are willing to spend two hours watching Zac Efron and Seth Rogen battle each other with oversized dildos. I think we can easily spare around the same amount of time for a film that inventively asks us to reconsider the meaning of our existence.

Oktay Ege Kozak is a film critic and screenwriter based in Portland, Oregon. He also writes for The Playlist, The Oregon Herald, and Beyazperde.com