Kings don't die. The young years of Nikos Kunduros fell on a turbulent era: the Second World War in Greece gradually grew into a civil war, and the future director in both of these wars actively participated, fighting in the ranks of the pro-communist army ELAS. The defeat and collapse of the leftist idea in his native country left an indelible mark in his soul and a heavy burden fell on all further creativity, in which pessimism and skepticism towards any ideas were so deeply rooted that even the fall of the dictatorship of the Black Colonels was not able to seriously affect them. Even the tortured-optimistic Songs of Fire, a documentary concert dedicated to the triumph of democracy in Greece, turned out to be a rather grim spectacle in Kunduros’ interpretation. And after him, the director generally focused on the tragic pages of the history of his country. It was not necessary to look for them long.
Filmed one after another, albeit with a rather large time interval, 1922 and Bordel tell about the equally sad events for Greece. But if the expulsion of the Greeks from the Turkish city of Smyrna, accompanied by huge casualties, is a well-known episode, then the uprising in Crete in 1897, described in the Bordela, remained in history a minor local episode. And as if emphasizing this difference, Kunduros shoots two close in idea, but completely different in the performance of the film. Large-scale tragic epic "1922" and chamber, decadent-aesthetic "Bordel", in which the pessimistic view of the director on history and politics was even more cozy.
In addition, here, for the first time after bringing Kunduros world fame “Little Aphrodites”, he again ventured to play the eternal chess game between Eros and Thanatos, filling the shots with a sensuously depraved atmosphere. And in this languid breeze cleverly hid his historical and political skepticism, relegating it to the background of love-erotic collisions, in order at the right moment to put it back on the foreground with the help of Marina Vlady, who phenomenally played her role in all senses of the word.
Nikos Kunduros has never been an “actor” director. In this he was radically different from another substitute Greek - Michalis Kakoyannis. Kunduros preferred to work with lesser-known actors, sculpting from them what he needed at the moment. But, having invited Marina Vlady to the main role in the “Bordela”, he voluntarily or unwittingly changed his principles. And the actress got more freedom in the film than she took great advantage of. Despite the fact that the picture is saturated (and even, perhaps, oversaturated) with characters, the image of the hostess of the brothel Rosa Buonaparte becomes the point at which absolutely all lines intersect, even if in the plot they seem to have no direct direction to her. But thanks to Vladi, the geometry of the film is guided by the laws of Lobachevsky, not Euclid, and the picture only benefits from this.
The story, told in the “Bordela”, begins with the moment when 13 girls from Marseille, led by Madame Buonaparte, land in the Cretan port of Hania, where the officer corps of the Great Powers, who sent troops to the island to maintain peace after the suppression of the anti-Ottoman uprising, frankly misses in the absence of worthy entertainment. The fragile peace is maintained by the brutal measures of the English soldiers, who without trial shoot anyone suspected of insurrection. Whereas the Russian corps, which does not have a corresponding order from the weak Tsar Nicholas II, can only be powerless to watch what is happening and gnash their teeth from impotence.
In the institution of Madame Buonaparte, an officer's club spontaneously arises, in which forced allies conduct spy games against each other, in which Rosa is voluntarily or unwittingly involved. The Turkish emissary Ibrahim-bey arranges her to spy on the allies, the Russian captain Semenov recognizes a compatriot in the hostess of the brothel, and the patriot and insurgent Vasilis finds in her a woman of his dreams. And it is the cruel Eros that as a result mixes the cards of all players, disdainfully throwing aside and trampling all the beautiful ideas into the dirt.
At the beginning of the film, Vasilis, an icon painter and partisan, is obsessed with the idea of an Orthodox brotherhood, a Faith that will help to overthrow the hated rule of the Ottomans. But the British, with the connivance of the Russians, shoot his brothers, and the Turks continue to slaughter Greek families. In response to a direct request for help, Captain Semenov, hiding his impotence in blatant cynicism, answers only: “We love you,” and again goes to the girls. And then, in response to the offer to drink “for the king”, Vasilis shouts a toast: “For the death of the king!” And here Semyonov utters a phrase that expresses the quintessence of all, especially the late work of Kunduros: “Tsars do not die!” They give birth to new kings.” No matter what you do, no matter how you fight, no matter what beautiful ideas you profess, kings do not die. Which means it's pointless. And Vasilis like a whirlpool rushes headlong into a suicidal feeling. It is equally suicidal for both, since lovers are united only by the opportunity to speak one language: native to Rosa and well-known to Vasilis. And divides too much, but first of all the blood on the hands of the icon painter and the past of the Rose, which will not let go.
Vasilis arrives to kill an English commander, but forgets his duty. Rosa must display the wonders of diplomacy in spy games, but ignores her. And the payback is not long in coming. The beautiful idea of Orthodox unity has drowned in political games. Barely born love became a victim of other people’s ambitions, and the last frame of the film was thrown into the mud cross, ripped Rose from his neck. As a symbol, no, not anti-Christianity, of course. As a symbol of another defeat of idealism.
But it loses this idealism damn beautifully: in a viciously sensitive atmosphere of decadence, among the many semi-nude female bodies that emphasize the incredible eroticism of the main figure of the film: Rosa Buonaparte performed by Marina Vladi. She, the only female character, always appears in the frame fully dressed, but looking at her you understand why one by one the men around lose their heads, and why the fiery insurgent and ascetic Vasilis forgets about his Idea.