One of the quintessential films of the 1950s, Anatole Litvak’s immaculate entry into his ‘identification of woman’ series is restrained in its grandness and rich in evoking the key themes of his cinema. In 1928, Bounine, a white Russian army general in exile, plots to pass off an itinerant Anna as Anastasia, the alleged sole survivor of the Czar’s family. With an eye on claiming the Romanov fortune deposited in the Bank of England, Bounine trains Anna to impersonate Anastasia but soon suspects he might be dealing with the genuine Grand Duchess.
Litvak fought with Fox to cast Ingrid Bergman who was ostracised in America after her scandalous affair with Roberto Rossellini. Now with her marriage to Rossellini on the rocks, Bergman’s portrayal of Anna’s tortured existence gained credibility, garnering her an Oscar.
Shot mostly in Elstree Studios in England but also in Paris, Nice and Copenhagen for exteriors, Anastasia is about knowledge of self and history, and how the two intertwine. In its dazzlingly modern approach, it resembles more recent films such as Abbas Kiarostami’s Certified Copy, a film that also features a couple’s intriguing games of identity and role-swapping. A breathtaking sense of ambiguity abounds throughout, partly thanks to the impeccable script by Arthur Laurents.
In an exquisite use of CinemaScope, there’s a striking conversation scene between Bergman and Brynner from their respective rooms in a hotel suite during which we only see two doors on each corner of the frame and a vast, empty space standing between them – the void of Anna’s identity but Bounine’s also. Then, magically, it fills with unspoken desire. If the film enacts a performance that the characters start to take for real, then, at the utterly brilliant ending, the Dowager Empress announces that the show has ended. But as she does, Anna and Bounine have already left the frame/ stage. Now we are left with our own void – to wonder who we are.

Ehsan Khoshbakht