Alexei German's "Hard to Be a God."
Alexei German's "Hard to Be a God."

Like its sprawling host city, the 43rd International Film Festival Rotterdam's gargantuan scale hampers assessment and comprehension, let alone pithy overview. Ascending the 600-foot Euromast on the edge of the center affords an impressive, confusing vista of urban development apparently stretching all the way across the flatlands to the horizon. A careful survey of the IFFR catalogue, meanwhile, yields with a tally of 216 new (2013/2014) films running an hour or more, with at least an equal number of shorter works, plus many installations, special events and so on.

The only way to make sense of it all is to plunge in and hope for the best — a comment that also applies to the most talked-about single element of the program at its halfway mark: Alexei German's "Hard To Be a God" ("Trudno byt' bogom"), a 177-minute Russian monochrome claustrophobic-epic of quasi-medievalist sci-fi. 

Over a decade in the actual making, having been brewing in his brain since the late sixties, German's follow-up to "Khrustalyov, My Car" (1998) always had the air of a film maudit. Its notoriously protracted and chaotic production-process was pessimistically chronicled in the 2012 documentary "Playback" — as The Hollywood Reporter's review sighed, "German's film remains uncompleted and... is likely to remain so, in which case the fragments which appear in 'Playback' are all the public is likely to see of it."

Spool forward a year, however, and the public got to see way, way more than fragments when "Hard To Be a God" premiered at the Rome Film Festival under tragic circumstances: German had died of heart failure (aged 74) in February 2013, when the film was in post-production — a process then completed by his wife Svetlana Karmalita and his son Alexey Jr. (himself the director of "The Last Train," "Garpastum" and "Paper Soldier). "Hard To Be a God" thus arrived in Rotterdam under the daunting weight of expectation — even if the American trades had been sniffy in their Rome reviews ("utterly incomprehensible... only German devotees will have sufficient patience" - Variety). 

The long wait, and the colossal effort, however, proved on this occasion to have been emphatically worthwhile (watch the trailer above). This is visionary cinema of truly loopy, uncompromised grandeur, an unremitting but stimulating slog through a swamp of post-narrative confusion which will frustrate and annoy those seeking conventional story-development. On the latter front, it helps to be at least familiar with the 1964 source novel of identical title — and/or Peter Fleischmann's financially disastrous 1989 West German adaptation (complete with Werner Herzog cameo). Written by brothers Arkadiy and Boris Strugatsky — whose "Roadside Picnic" loosely inspired Andrei Tarkovsky's "Stalker," the book is a swashbuckler doubling as a thinly-veiled critique of the USSR's persecution of artists and intellectuals. 

Near-future Earth scientists travel to a planet which is "identical" to ours but, according to the film's introductory voiceover, is "about 800 years behind." The scientists, on a mission to help the development of society towards a Renaissance/Enlightenment era, pass themselves off as aristocrats — the main protagonist Don Rumata (Leonid Yarmolkin) is rumored to be the illegitimate offspring of a divine being. This much is graspable from the early stretches, but it quickly becomes apparent that German's attitude to the plot mirrors Rumata's permanent mode of cavalier, Olympian disdain. 

The fourth wall is nonchalantly discarded: the actors peek into the camera with insolent abandon.

Present in every scene, Rumata is a complex, controversial and charismatic figure, lurching around with a world-weary swagger: as magnificently incarnated by the bearded, ursine Yarmolkin, he's like Toshiro Mifune with the head of Peter Stormare. Rumata's rugged handsomeness stands out amid the peasant majority in a society run along nebulous but brutally feudal lines ("it has always been like this and always will be"). Where Rumata hulks, the locals skulk and scuttle. Faces are grotesque masks of wizened flesh; leering crones abound; teeth and even eyes seem to be optional — Hieronymous Bosch would have felt right at home here, likewise both Brueghels (Rotterdam's Boijmans Van Beuningen museum boasts canvases by all three.)

And there's no getting away from the parade of nastiness: cinematographers Vladimir Ilyin and Yuri Klimenko and their doughty operators stage lengthy sequence after lengthy sequence in which the viewer is led through crowded, fetid, stygian interiors as if by the nose. (Here's one film that would really benefit from the Smell-o-vision process.) The fourth wall is nonchalantly discarded: the actors peek into the camera with insolent abandon, and our vision is frequently obstructed by all manner of stuff being dangled in front of the lens (chicken-legs, most memorably).

German is aiming to conjure a nightmarish, inescapably sensual experience, immersing us in an mud-puddled, amoral world where bodily-fluids flow and hideously intermingle, torture and battle are everyday events, and dialogue tends towards the deadpan/surreal: "Your grace, someone saw a dude with gills in the creek!" yelps an underling. 

A Gilliamesque gallimaufry of cloacal maximalism, "Hard To Be a God" is often draggy, with bursts of sudden violence punctuating repetitive, sometimes yawn-inducing interludes of torpor and inaction. It makes "Game of Thrones" look like "A Knight's Tale," David Lynch's "Dune" seem like "Return of the Jedi." Alongside the scale of German's ambition and the casual, old-school mastery of his execution, every other new feature in the Rotterdam program looks like pretty small beer.