Come and See (1985) Review

Cinema has long grappled with the horrors of war, producing some of its most affecting works in the process. From the military hypocrisy of Stanley Kubrick's ‘Paths of Glory’ to the shattered idealism of ‘All Quiet on the Western Front’, filmmakers have repeatedly sought to expose the gulf between the romanticism of battle and its grim, unforgiving reality. Francis Ford Coppola's ‘Apocalypse Now’ ventured into the dark heart of combat, where violence and madness are difficult to separate, while Terrence Malick's ‘The Thin Red Line’ approached the subject with a more philosophical eye, contemplating the place of humanity amid the savagery of conflict.

Few films have captured the sheer devastation of war with the unrelenting force of Elem Klimov's ‘Come and See’. Set in Nazi-occupied Belarus during the Second World War, it follows Flyora, a young teenager who joins the Soviet partisans in their fight against the German occupation. He enters the conflict an eager boy, but as the world around him descends into unimaginable brutality, childhood falls away; and hell follows with him.

Released in 1985, ‘Come and See’ remains a powerful, frightening and enduring work. Uncompromising and unforgettable, it is a film that feels almost unbearably real. Written by Klimov and Ales Adamovich, the film refuses to romanticise combat or dress its violence in the familiar trappings of heroism and glory. The battlefield is almost beside the point; Klimov is more interested in what war does to the people caught within it, in how quickly innocence, morality and even a sense of reality can be stripped away.

When we first meet Flyora, he is a boy fascinated by the prospect of joining the resistance, his enthusiasm betraying how little he understands of the world he is entering. What follows is not so much a coming-of-age story as the violent destruction of childhood itself. Flyora does not emerge from his experiences wiser or stronger, but as someone who has seen too much, a microscopic cog in a catastrophic machine.

The film is concerned with ordinary people caught in the path of an invading army, where homes offer no sanctuary and entire communities are condemned simply for existing. The distinction between soldier, partisan and civilian offers little protection. For those caught beneath the wheels of war, there is no guarantee that suffering serves some higher purpose. It is an indiscriminate force leaving almost nothing untouched.

What ultimately elevates ‘Come and See’ beyond many other anti-war films, however, is not simply the strength of its message, but the extraordinary manner in which Klimov communicates it. Rather than observing events from a comfortable distance, Klimov places us alongside Flyora, refusing the safety of detachment. His direction has a remarkable sense of immediacy; scenes unfold with an unnerving patience, while sudden eruptions of violence shatter moments of uneasy calm. There is rarely any sense that we are being guided safely through the carnage unfolding before us.

Much of this power comes from the astonishing cinematography of Aleksei Rodionov. The Belarusian landscape initially possesses a strange, almost pastoral beauty, but Klimov gradually transforms it into something overwhelmingly oppressive. Wide shots emphasise the vulnerability of people against vast stretches of countryside, while intimate close-ups bring us face to face with those caught in its brutality. Characters stare directly into the lens, as though confronting the audience itself. As Flyora's ordeal deepens, the film slips further from stark realism into something stranger, images suspended between memory, nightmare and hallucination.

Valeriya Belova’s editing is similarly disorientating, frequently abandoning conventional rhythms in favour of something more impressionistic. Moments of tranquillity abruptly give way to scenes of unimaginable cruelty, while the film’s most harrowing passages unfold with an agonising patience, denying us the relief of a cut. That sense of danger extends beyond the editing; weapons, explosions and physical violence have a startlingly tangible quality, lending the film an unnerving sense of realism. Much of what we see feels genuinely dangerous because, at times during production, it really was.

The sound design is equally remarkable. Gunfire, explosions and distant aircraft arrive with terrifying immediacy, while elsewhere the soundtrack becomes distorted, muffled and strangely detached from reality. Silence can be just as unnerving. Oleg Yanchenko's sparse musical score is used with remarkable restraint, allowing ambient noise and the sounds of human suffering carry much of the film's emotional weight.

The performances are extraordinary, particularly Aleksei Kravchenko’s as Flyora. At just fourteen, Kravchenko gives a performance of astonishing physical and emotional intensity, communicating Flyora's transformation without ever resorting to theatricality. His face becomes haunted as the film progresses, his youthful features gradually giving way to something older and harder to read.

It is often the smallest reactions that are most affecting: a vacant stare, a flicker of confusion, the desperate attempt to comprehend something that cannot be understood. The supporting performances are equally convincing, especially Olga Mironova as Glasha, whose warmth and vulnerability provide a brief glimpse of the life Flyora might have known had war not intervened. A natural actress, she brings an unaffected sincerity to the role that is most affecting.

As Elem Klimov’s masterful film progresses, its title, ‘Come and See’, takes on an increasingly haunting significance. At first, it sounds like an invitation, but by the end it feels more like a command: to bear witness, to refuse the comfort of looking away. Klimov offers no easy catharsis, leaving us instead with the terrible knowledge of what human beings are capable of doing to one another, and the lingering image of a boy forced to confront it far too soon. ‘Come and See’ is not easy to watch, but its power lies precisely in its refusal to let us look away.