In The Antique, Rusudan Glurjidze’s poignant sophomore film, the title could refer to any number of decaying elements: the antique furniture illegally imported by Medea (Salome Demuria), the dilapidated Saint Petersburg apartment she buys, or even the elderly former owner, Vadim (Sergey Dreyden), whose grudging presence lingers in the once-grand space. The film is set against the backdrop of Russia’s 2006 campaign to expel ethnic Georgians, a period marked by tension and hostility. Yet, at its heart, The Antique is a delicate character study of two individuals caught in the crossfire of political and personal estrangement.
The film blends personal histories with larger political commentary, though its focus remains firmly on the characters’ evolving relationship. Like Glurjidze’s 2016 debut House of Others, Georgia’s submission for the international Oscar, The Antique uses a specific historical moment to explore universal themes of alienation and loss. The film’s careful pacing and atmospheric cinematography paint a portrait of a society grappling with its own fractured identity. While it lacks the raw intensity of its predecessor, its quieter, more tempered sentimentality may resonate widely on the global arthouse circuit.
Initially marred by controversy—The Antique was pulled from its Venice premiere slot due to a copyright dispute, which the filmmakers claimed was an attempt at censorship—the film eventually made its debut, gaining additional weight from the political context. Its stand against the oppression of Georgians in Russia adds a layer of significance, as the filmmakers work to reclaim their voice in the face of adversity.
At the center of the film is Medea, played with a guarded resolve by Salome Demuria. A Georgian immigrant, Medea moved to Russia for economic reasons, and her pragmatic, solitary existence reflects the harshness of her environment.
She lives and works in a cold, inhospitable Saint Petersburg, a city as unwelcoming as the bureaucratic system that governs it. Her job at an antiques warehouse is a metaphor for her life: isolated, obscure, and under the radar. When she purchases an old, decrepit apartment, it feels like the perfect refuge—a place where she can disappear into the shadows of history.
However, the apartment comes with a condition: Vadim, an elderly widower and former government official, refuses to leave. His sour, xenophobic disposition clashes with Medea’s quiet pragmatism, and he treats her with dismissive contempt. Vadim’s own isolation is driven by a bitterness towards the changing world around him, and he resists any form of human connection. Yet, despite their differences, the two slowly begin to thaw in one another’s presence. Both are loners, retreating into their own worlds, but the circumstances of their lives compel them to interact.
Vadim’s strained relationship with his materialistic son Peter (Vladimir Vdovichenkov) only deepens his sense of alienation. Meanwhile, Medea struggles with the persistent advances of her ex, Lado (Vladimir Daushvili), a fellow Georgian whose arrival in Russia further complicates her fragile existence. As tensions mount, the film delicately explores how the two central characters—across cultural and generational divides—find common ground in their shared solitude.
Despite the potential for sentimentality, The Antique avoids cliches thanks to the nuanced performances of Demuria and Dreyden. Their portrayals of people scarred by both personal and political history ground the film in its human story.
Dreyden’s performance is especially poignant, marking his final screen appearance before his death in 2023. Together, Demuria and Dreyden bring depth to their characters, ensuring that their relationship, though gradual and subtle, never slips into melodrama.
The film’s greatest strength lies in its visual storytelling, captured by Spanish cinematographer Gorka Gomez Andreu. Known for his work on House of Others, Andreu once again creates stunning, textured compositions that evoke both the passage of time and the decay of a society. The film’s imagery—marked by rusted surfaces, peeling paint, and foggy windows—conveys a sense of both history and the present disintegrating before the viewer’s eyes. The visuals become a metaphor for the crumbling state of the characters’ lives, a poignant reminder of how the personal is inextricably linked to the political.
The Antique is a meditation on the ravages of time, both on people and places. It paints a picture of a Russia on the brink of transformation, where old ideologies clash with the new world emerging around them. At its core, the film is about the quiet but powerful connections that form between people, even in the most unlikely and hostile environments. It is a thoughtful exploration of the human condition, delivered through understated performances and a beautifully rendered sense of place.
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