Konstantin Levin is expected to live the life of a 19th century Russian aristocrat—days devoted to a bureaucratic job, afternoons spent in St. Petersburg salons, discussing politics or more likely gossiping, and evenings devoted to a vodka fueled dinner, ball, or a night at the opera. But this isn’t satisfactory to the thoughtful Levin, an essential character in Tolstoy’s epic novel, Anna Karenina, and a significant figure in a recent film interpretation.
In contrast to the glitz and scandal of the titular heroine’s life, Levin’s own daily existence is characterized by rural simplicity. He focuses on family and “the true human experience” distant from the superficiality of St. Petersburg, with a credo that strongly echoes that of the author himself; Tolstoy lived the pure, Christian life that Levin idolizes. Nevertheless, he clearly understood the allure of Anna Karenina’s “immoral” affair with dashing cavalry officer Count Vronsky enough to draw in his own audience.
As an Eastern European myself, I’m personally acquainted with the bitter cold winters and vodka-induced rosy cheeks that are often linked to the stereotypical whirlwind affairs and sweeping gestures that characterize classic Russian novels.
It was just this kind of passion that first drew me into the dense and sprawling, yet emotionally wide-reaching Anna Karenina. However, it’s something that Joe Wright’s screen adaptation doesn’t quite manage to recreate, in spite of many notable elements that make it visually arresting. Masterfully conjuring the atmosphere of Moscow society, the film is characterized by an alternative setting, literal and figurative theatricality, and cinematography that are undeniably intricate.
On the other hand, I love Tolstoy’s novel for his beautifully written story lines, woven together in a way that fosters intimacy with the reader. The token Russian lusts and furies unabashedly engaged my emotions. I would think about it when I wasn’t reading, and even now, years later, think of Anna everytime I see a train.
But Anna Karenina is not just a passionate, emotional tale in the classic Russian tradition, nor is it the simple parable I would expect from a moralist author. At the deepest level, it is an experience. The novel portrays how lives intersect and examines the influence of so many personalities, desires, and beliefs that we have very little power to change.
Therein lies the tremendous attraction of the narrative—Anna reminds us all that we are fundamentally vulnerable. Tolstoy isn’t condemning Anna for her supposedly sin-induced misery, though he clearly doesn’t condone her actions. Rather, in traditional Christian tradition, he believes God is the true judge.
Nevertheless, the novel holds a power over me, an atheist. Anna’s story seems to carry the universal message that it is up to us to judge ourselves. Elements of her tale can be found in any great tragedy, just as Levin’s can be discovered in any happy ending. As the conjunction of so many fates, Anna Karenina can’t be absorbed in one sitting, and its meaning for me has changed throughout my life.
We live in an era of breadth, not depth. In its original form, Anna Karenina is a different experience for every reader, but unmistakably intense and effective beyond the powers of Wright’s condensation and interpretation. Wright’s film can and should be enjoyed, but can offer only a remnant of the original work’s true pleasure.
Screen adaptations of literature, though well-intentioned and often an exciting prospect for any fan of the original work, typically fail to capture the emotional core of a narrative in the midst of melodrama. As difficult as it may be to admit for avid moviegoers, nothing can replace the traditional experience of sitting down with a classic novel.
