There’s a moment halfway through Doctor Zhivago when a character stares wistfully into the frozen distance, snow swirling around them like powdered melancholy. That image, more than any line of dialogue or plot point, pretty much sums up the whole experience of watching this film: beautiful, poetic, and numbingly slow.
Directed by David Lean—yes, Lawrence of Arabia David Lean—and based on Boris Pasternak’s novel, Doctor Zhivago is undeniably a cinematic achievement. It’s packed with sweeping cinematography, lush romanticism, and performances that manage to register despite the film’s glacial pace. And yet, despite all that craft and grandeur, I walked away from the nearly three-and-a-half-hour experience feeling like I’d spent a week trudging through a Russian blizzard. Not dead. Not invigorated. Just tired.
Let’s talk about that pacing, because it’s the snowdrift that buries this entire endeavor.
The Cold War Romance That Takes Its Time… A Lot of It
The story, in theory, is gripping: Yuri Zhivago (Omar Sharif), a poet and doctor (you know, the kind of guy women only fall in love with in movies), navigates the Russian Revolution and its aftermath while torn between two women—his wife Tonya (Geraldine Chaplin) and his mistress Lara (Julie Christie). There’s also political upheaval, war, suffering, and long, brooding walks through snowy landscapes.
All the ingredients for an epic are here: forbidden love, historical turmoil, a sweeping score by Maurice Jarre (you’ve definitely heard “Lara’s Theme” even if you haven’t seen the movie), and the kind of epic scope that tries to scream “prestige” at every turn. But the film’s actual storytelling momentum is like a sled in sand—it’s technically moving, but very slowly and with considerable friction.
Lean takes the idea of a “slow burn” and stretches it until it’s practically inert. It’s as if he mistook epic for endless. Scenes that could be powerful in their stillness end up dragging into lethargy. Emotional beats are spaced so far apart that by the time we get to a payoff, we’ve almost forgotten what the setup was. And that’s not an exaggeration—this film hops around so much in time that it demands a patient, attentive viewer. Or one who doesn’t mind zoning out and snapping back just in time for the next scenic interlude.
Acting Through the Snow
That said, the performances are lovely across the board. Omar Sharif brings an earnest gentleness to Zhivago, even if his character is more of a symbol than a fully fleshed-out person. Julie Christie as Lara is radiant and tragic in equal measure, embodying the kind of doomed romance you’d expect from a Russian novel. Rod Steiger, as the opportunistic Komarovsky, actually gives the film some much-needed edge and tension, just when things threaten to drift into a snowbank of softness.
But again, for all their talent, they’re operating inside a very deliberate—and at times suffocating—framework. Everyone’s either whispering poetic musings, staring into space, or walking in slow motion through snow. When your central love triangle involves that much yearning and that little dialogue, you start to feel like the film is daring you to care before you freeze over.
Snow-Covered Cinema
Here’s the thing: Doctor Zhivago is undeniably gorgeous. Freddie Young’s cinematography is nothing short of breathtaking. Whether it’s a candlelit room during a power outage or the haunting emptiness of an ice-crusted country estate, this film knows how to frame a moment. Every shot looks like it belongs on a museum wall or the cover of a Barnes & Noble Classics paperback.
But cinematography can’t carry an entire film, especially not one this long. For every striking image, there’s an equally dull moment of narrative drag. I found myself wishing the plot had half the urgency of the visuals. By the third hour, when another character stared blankly into another snowy void, I didn’t feel sorrow or longing—I felt like shouting, “For the love of Tolstoy, do something!”
Final Diagnosis: Mild Frostbite, Beautiful Views
In the end, Doctor Zhivago feels like a film that’s more admired than loved. It’s the kind of movie that gets shown in film classes and looks great in an Oscar montage. And while I appreciate its craftsmanship and ambition, I can’t ignore how much of a chore it felt to actually watch.
For those who adore slow-burn historical romance, this might be a winter wonderland. For me, it was more like being stuck in a snow globe that someone forgot to shake. Lovely to look at. Not much fun to live in.