Fantasia ’21: Mergen (short)

In fantasies, the son of a warrior is almost always destined to become a warrior himself. For a young Kazakh boy, destiny calls early. Fate is serious business on the Central Asian steppe, but so is revenge in Raiymbek Aizhanov’s longish short film Mergen, included in the Radical Spirits shorts block, which screens as an on-demand selection of the 2021 Fantasia International Film Festival.

Mergen’s father is a warrior in the Khan’s army, but he has not been heard from for an ominously long time. Nevertheless, Mergen’s mother and second-sighted grandmother decide to stay behind when their nomadic clan departs, in hopes he will eventually find them later. Instead, it will be other warriors from both sides of the conflict that intrude upon their yurt (as a former resident of an Upper Eastside studio, I have to say yurts look pretty spacious and comfy).

Aizhanov’s nearly half-hour film is filled with hack-and-slash action and sweeping steppe backdrops, but it also includes a good deal of spiritually-based fantastical elements: visions, portents, and messages communicated through dreams. It is exotic looking, but archetypally familiar. Think of it as the sort of film Mel Gibson would like to still be able to make.

Young Alikhan Abi is impressively expressive and disciplined, but also looks age-appropriately small and vulnerable as the title character. Yerzhanov Gazret adds tragic heft as the Kazakh traitor. Aizhanov stages some satisfying action sequences and cinematographer Sardar Baimolden makes it all look big and cinematic.

Film Maudit 2.0: A Dark, Dark Man

Sacha Baron Cohen really ought to show some respect, but that is obviously too much to expect. The truth is Kazakhstan has produced some remarkably challenging and intriguing films in recent years (they are films, not “moviefilms”) that deserve much more international recognition. Yet, they are often more pointedly critical of contemporary Kazakhstani society and politics than Borat ever was. Indeed, the sexism and corruption of provincial police and officials are blisteringly depicted in Adilkhan Yerzhanov’s A Dark, Dark Man, which screens as part of the online Film Maudit 2.0 festival.

By this time, Bezkat knows the drill. When another orphan boy is discovered, murdered and sexually violated, he immediately sets out to frame Pekuar, the village’s developmentally disabled pariah. That is not good enough for the local political boss, who bribes Bezkat’s superior to insure Pekuar “accidentally” dies within 24 hours. Bezkat is just about to proceed with the grim business, when Ariana arrives. The big city journalist has credentials allowing her access to Pekuar and Bezkat during his investigation.

Much to his annoyance, Bezkat must go through the motions of conducting a real investigation, with the journalist, the accused, and his not-quite-as-childlike “girlfriend” in tow. Obviously, it gets super-awkward for the crooked cop, when he crosses paths with the boss and his henchmen, especially as he gradually grows to respect Ariana’s honesty and idealism.

Dark Dark is definitely a slow-burner, with the slowness being no exaggeration, but the white-hot burning part is no joke either. This is truly a remarkably tightly controlled and tautly constructed art-house thriller. You might forget to breathe regularly watching this one.

QWFF ’19: Bad Bad Winter

What’s a little wealth redistribution between friends? You could also call it home invasion, armed robbery, and hostage-taking, but that would be too honest. Regardless, a group of old Kazakhstani friends will not be friends much longer in Olga Korotko’s Bad Bad Winter, which screens as part of the 2019 Queens World Film Festival.

Dinara has returned to the provincial town of her school days to close out her recently deceased grandmother’s cozy cottage. Since leaving to study medicine in Astana, here fortunes have improved greatly and so have those of her businessman father. In contrast, the prospects of her old classmates have stayed as lousy as ever—or even gotten worse. Nevertheless, she is still sufficiently interested in her old flame Marat to spend the night with him.

Regrettably, Marat happens to spy her granny’s rather sizable untapped stash of cash, so he returns the next day with his suspicious girlfriend Arai, and fellow schoolmates Aibek and Sanzhar, who are facing a potential murder charge along with Marat, if they cannot adequately grease the necessary official palms. Obviously, they intend to steal that cash Dinara subsequently tucked away, but finding it again will be trickier than Marat expected. For a while, everyone pretends this a just a soiree for old friends, but they eventually acknowledge what it really is: a home invasion. Of course, Dinara knew it all along. After all, she always was the smartest one in class.

The strange is-this-a-thriller-or-isn’t tone of film’s first thirty minutes or so makes it hard to pigeonhole, but it is weirdly effective. Of course, it inevitably becomes clear this is indeed a rather dark crime drama, at which point Dinara strips away the pretenses and levels a withering moral judgment on her captors.

It is too bad New York’s congressional delegation probably will not see Winter, because it depicts redistributionist class-warfare as the thuggery it is. Frankly, Aibek’s threats and justifications are uncomfortably similar to their own rhetoric. It is also telling how Dinara’s “guests” berate her one minute for wearing frumpy old clothes and then accuse her of lording her wealth over them.

This is also a great example of a film helmed by a woman and powered by a formidable female lead, but it is not likely to turn up in surveys women-driven filmmaking. Regardless, Tolganay Talgat is absolutely riveting as Dinara. It is fiercely intelligent performance that covers an awful lot of physical and psychological ground. As the psychotic Aibek, Zhalgas Zhangazin exudes creepy malevolence. There is something deeply unsettling about his violent sense of entitlement, probably because it hits so close to home. Tair Magzumov manages to project an extremely weird pathos as the remorseful junkie, Sanzhar, while Nurgul Alpysbayeva further ratchets up the hothouse tension as the jealous Arai.

With its confined setting and five principal characters, Winter has all the elements of the classic stage thriller. Korotko marshals them all quite effectively, but there is also some subtle social commentary (especially regarding the Kazakhstani justice system) woven in. Very highly recommended, Bad Bad Winter screens this Wednesday (3/27) during QWFF ’19.

SIFF ’16: The Wounded Angel

As part of an austerity measure, electricity is promptly cut at 9:00 each evening. No, its not California today. This was Kazakhstan in the early 1990s, but the political leadership is roughly comparable. Of course, as far as four teens growing up on the hardscrabble steppe are concerned, the Nazarbayev regime might as well be on Mars. Yet, the country’s stifling lack of economic development will inevitably contribute to their grief in Emir Baigazin’s The Wounded Angel (trailer here), which screens during the 2016 Seattle International Film Festival.

There is a sort of logical fatalism to Baigazin’s thematically related stories. That which the lads most value will be taken from them, whereas those that have nothing will lose their last shreds of humanity, all before graduating from high school. Zharas is shamed by his lay-about ex-convict father, but he will make his own poor decisions as the family’s only bread winner. Chick has an angelic voice that could carry him out of the provincial backwater, until an untimely cold (perhaps with an assist from puberty) brings him crashing down to earth. The shockingly young looking Toad is already borderline sociopathic, but an encounter with a trio of shunned glue-sniffers will push the scrap metal salvager beyond redemption.

Perhaps most tragically, Aslan could very well have earned admittance to a pre-med program. Unfortunately, when his girlfriend gets pregnant he figures he can fix the problem himself, with predictably disastrous results. Indeed, environment is truly destiny for Baigazin, who will not allow talent or virtue to rescue his ill-fated boys.

Baigazin has an eye for imagery, especially the otherworldly Mad Max-ish landscape Toad navigates in search of scrap, but he gives viewers precious little relief. Time and again, we watch youthful innocence get crushed by their bleak circumstances. It is a powerful indictment of a callous regime, but it is a grueling viewing experience that gets repetitive over time.

Still, there are a number of effective bits, such as the dramatic contrast between Chick’s ecstatic performances of “Ave Maria” and the near silence of the rest of the picture. The glue-sniffers’ inadvertent recreation of Hugo Simberg’s titular touchstone fresco is also rather eerie. Still, after a while, we just so get where Baigazin is going.

Without question, the strongest segment is Toad’s misadventure. Despite our previous conditioning, it still manages to shock. Regrettably, the other three story arcs feel more like punishment. Admirers of Baigazin’s Harmony Lessons may want to sign up for another ride, but most of the rest of festival circuit patrons will find it a rough go. We can appreciate its aesthetic purity, but it is hard to recommend The Wounded Angel when it screens this Wednesday (5/25), May 31^st, and June 8^th, during this year’s SIFF.

TIFF ’15: Stranger (Zhat)

During the Captive Nations era, Kazakhstan was the whipping post of the Soviet Union. The Republic was a dumping many nationalities forcibly exiled after WWII (de facto ethnic cleansing), suffered widespread famine as a result of agricultural collectivization, and endured Party campaigns against regional cultural diversity. The reclusive Ilyas is case in point, even though the rugged mountain man is almost completely oblivious of the macro forces conspiring against him. He is simply incapable of conforming to meet the demands of socialism in Yermek Tursunov’s Stranger (a.k.a. Zhat, trailer here), Kazakhstan’s official foreign language Academy Award submission, which screens at this year’s Toronto International Film Festival.

Ilyas was in awe of his father, Yedige. The experienced hunter was also his only family in the world, so when Yedige was inexplicably picked up in the dead of night during Stalin’s purges, it understandably devastates young Ilyas. However, instead of relying on other’s charity, Ilyas disappears into the mountains, living on game and the proceeds of his pelts. Sadly, he leaves behind the great love of his life, Kamshut, who will be forced to marry his true-believing contemporary.

In time, Ilyas develops quite the reputation. Naturally, he is invited to join the fight against Stalin’s former allies, the German National Socialists, but the Great Patriotic War means nothing to him. He simply has no reference points for it. Unfortunately, this will cause resentment as Stalin’s bungling prolongs the war and the village’s horrible suffering. When Ilyas finally starts to lose a step, there are those who will take advantage.

In a way, Ilyas is an archetypal holy fool, but in terms of temperament, he is much more closely akin to the classic western mountain man. Tragically, he is also a man very much out of step with the ideological madness of his time. He is like a Dostoyevsky hero transplanted in a John Ford film. Clearly, Tursunov understands both disparate traditions and reconciles them remarkably well.

Ilyas is not exactly chatty, but Erzhan Nurymbet’s powerful presence does not need much dialogue. He expresses his mournful regret and guilelessness with forceful directness. He is a symbol, but he is also a flesh-and-blood character. His desolate fate is not just an allegory to unpack. It has deep emotional resonance.

Tursunov paints on a big canvas, but he still shows a delicate touch with the intimate scenes Ilyas steals with his beloved Kamshut. Frankly, there is a little Doctor Zhivago reflected in their star-crossed love and the tension between tradition and nature on one hand and Communist materialism on the other is very much in keeping with the themes of Wolf Totem. Stranger also has its share of wolves as well.

Cinematographer Murat Aliyev captures the grandeur and unforgiving harshness of the steppe, contrasting the spectacular vistas with the grubby, shabby atmosphere of the village. It is a haunting film that spells out the particulars of Soviet oppression in no uncertain terms, while giving the commissars and apparatchiks precious little face-time. Very highly recommended (particularly for Academy voters), Stranger screens again today (9/18) and tomorrow (9/19) as part of this year’s TIFF.

Kazakhstan’s Gift to Stalin

One of the scarier aspects of Stalin’s reign of terror was the effectiveness of his cult of personality. His image was omnipresent, investing his iron-fisted rule with a secular idolatry which brooked no criticism. In fact, reverence for dictator was so deeply ingrained in the Soviet people, many of those who suffered personal persecution under his regime reportedly still wept when news of Stalin’s death was released to the public. That emotional dichotomy is sensitively dramatized in Rustem Abdrashev’s The Gift to Stalin (trailer here), which finally opens theatrically in New York after an extended festival run.

Under Stalinism, Kazakhstan became the dumping ground for massive deportations of Soviet ethnic minorities (including a surprisingly large Korean community). As Gift opens in 1949, young Sashka’s Jewish family is on one such cramped transport making its way through the Eurasian steppe, in a scene that bears an obvious similarity to tragic events from Europe’s recent anti-Semitic history. The train stops at each provincial station just long enough to unload the freshly deceased, but it is sufficient time for Sashka’s family to smuggle him off the train in the company of corpses, where he is discovered and essentially adopted by Kasym, a fierce looking, but gentle track worker.

Given the risks inherent in sheltering Sashka, the Muslim Kasym has the village spiritualist rename him something less suspicious and more Kazakh sounding: Sabyr, meaning humble. Though still physically powerful, Kasym is old enough to be the boy’s grandfather, so he accepts the welcome help of his neighbor Verka, the exiled widow of an alleged traitor. Unfortunately, the village cannot openly come together to raise Sashka/Sabyr. Even on the lonely steppe, the Party apparatus, represented by a venal policeman and the sadistic regional military commander, maintain the Stalinist atmosphere of fear.

When not victimizing the local women, the party leaders are preparing the town’s commemoration of Stalin’s big seven-oh. Gifts from children across the USSR are being collected for the nationwide birthday celebration. The child offering the best sacrifice wins the privilege of giving their offering to Stalin personally. It might sound like a questionable honor, but Sashka covets it as an opportunity to petition Stalin for the release of his parents. However, the gift Stalin really wanted was the first successful Soviet test of an atomic bomb, which will soon literally rock Kazkhstan.

Abdrashev dramatically employs the vastness of the steppe to express the alienation of his exiled characters and deftly handles his many young actors. The physically imposing Nurjuman Ikhtimbayev turns in a legitimately touching performance as Kasym, the gentle giant. Likewise, Dalen Shintemirov comes across quite naturally on-screen, never cloying nor affected in the role of young Sashka.

Told in flashbacks by an adult Sashka now safely residing in Israel, Gift is an unabashedly sentimental story of sacrifice and thanksgiving, but honestly earns its emotional pay-off. To its credit, the film does not whitewash the realities of life under Stalinism, particularly regarding ethnic minorities banished to the Eurasian republics. One of the best films to play both the New York Jewish Film Festival and Russian Film Week in recent years, Gift well deserves its long deferred theatrical run. Recommended with enthusiasm and affection, it opens this Friday (3/18) at the Cinema Village.

Russian Film Week ‘09: The Gift to Stalin

One of the scarier aspects of Stalin’s reign of terror was the effectiveness of his cult of personality. His image was omnipresent, investing his iron-fisted rule with a secular idolatry which brooked no criticism. (Thankfully, nothing like that could ever happen here, right?) In fact, reverence for his personality cult was so deeply ingrained in the Soviet people, many of those who suffered personal persecution under his regime reportedly still wept when news of Stalin’s death was released to the public. That emotional dichotomy is sensitively dramatized in Rustem Abdrashev’s The Gift to Stalin (trailer here), which screens as part of the 2009 Russian Film Week.

Under Stalinism, Kazakhstan became the dumping ground for massive deportations of Soviet ethnic minorities (including a surprisingly large Korean community). As Gift opens in 1949, young Sashka’s Jewish family is on one such cramped transport making its way through the Eurasian steppe, in a scene that bears an obvious similarity to tragic events from Europe’s recent history. The train stops at each provincial station just long enough to unload the freshly deceased, but it is sufficient time for Sashka’s family to smuggle him off the train in the company of corpses, where he is discovered and essentially adopted by Kasym, a fierce looking, but gentle track worker.

Given the risks inherent in sheltering Sashka, the Muslim Kasym has the village spiritualist rename him something less suspicious and more Kazakh sounding: Sabyr, meaning humble. Though still physically powerful, Kasym is old enough to be the boy’s grand-father, so he gets welcome help from his neighbor Verka, the exiled widow of an alleged traitor. Unfortunately, the village cannot openly come together to raise Sashka/Sabyr. Even on the lonely steppe, the Party apparatus, represented by a venal policeman and the sadistic regional military commander, maintain the Stalinist atmosphere of fear.

When not victimizing the local women, the party leaders are preparing the town’s commemoration of Stalin’s big seven-o. Gifts from children across the USSR are being collected for the nationwide birthday celebration. The child offering the best sacrifice wins the privilege of giving their gift to Stalin personally. It might sound like a questionable honor, but Sashka covets it as an opportunity to petition Stalin for the release of his parents. However, the gift Stalin really wanted was the first successful Soviet test of an atomic bomb, which will soon literally rock Kazkhstan.

Abdrashev dramatically employs the vastness of the steppe to express the alienation of his exiled characters and deftly handles his many young actors. The physically imposing Nurjuman Ikhtimbayev turns in a legitimately touching performance as Kasym, the gentle giant. Dalen Shintemirov comes across quite naturally on-screen, neither cloying nor affected in the role of young Sashka.

Told in flashbacks by an adult Sashka now safely residing in Israel, Gift is an unabashedly sentimental story of sacrifice and thanksgiving, but honestly earns its emotional pay-off. To its credit, the film does not whitewash the realities of life under Stalinism, particularly regarding ethnic minorities banished to the Eurasian republics. One of the best films of this year’s New York Jewish Film Festival, Gift makes a welcome return to the City under the auspices of Russian Film Week. It screens Tuesday (11/17) at the Brooklyn Public Library and next Sunday (11/22) at the Millennium Theater in Brighton Beach.

NYJFF: The Gift to Stalin

One of the scarier aspects of Stalin’s reign of terror was the effectiveness of his cult of personality. His image was omnipresent, investing his iron-fisted rule with a secular idolatry which brooked no criticism. (Thankfully, nothing like that could ever happen here, right?) In fact, reverence for his personality cult was so deeply ingrained in the Soviet people, many of those who suffered personal persecution under his regime reportedly still wept when news of Stalin’s death was released to the public. That emotional dichotomy is dramatized in Rustem Abdrashev’s The Gift to Stalin (Kazakh trailer here), which screens tonight at the NYJFF.

Under Stalinism, Kazakhstan became the dumping ground for massive deportations of Soviet ethnic minorities (including a surprisingly large Korean community). As Gift opens in 1949, young Sashka’s Jewish family is on one such cramped transport making its way through the Eurasian steppe, in a scene that bears an obvious similarity to recent European history. The train stops at each provincial station just long enough to dump the freshly deceased. However, Sashka’s family takes advantage of that time to smuggle him off the train in the company of corpses, where he is discovered and essentially adopted by Kasym, a fearsome looking, but gentle track worker.

Given the risks inherent in sheltering Sashka, the Muslim Kasym has the village spiritualist rename him something less suspicious and more Kazakh sounding: Sabyr, meaning humble. Though still physically powerful, Kasym is old enough to be his grand-father, so he gets welcome help from his neighbor Verka, the exiled widow of an alleged traitor. Unfortunately, the village cannot simply come together to raise Sashka/Sabyr. Even on the lonely steppe, the Party apparatus, represented by a venal policeman and the sadistic regional military commander, maintain the Stalinist atmosphere of fear.

In addition to victimizing the local women, the party leaders are also preparing for the town’s commemoration of Stalin’s big seven-o. Gifts from children across the USSR are being collected for the nationwide birthday celebration. The child offering the best sacrifice wins the privilege of giving their gift to Stalin personally. It might sound like a questionable honor, but Sashka covets it as an opportunity to petition Stalin for the release of his parents. However, the gift Stalin really wanted was the first successful Soviet test of an atomic bomb, which will soon literally rock Kazkhstan.

Abdrashev dramatically employs the vastness of the steppe to express the alienation of his exiled characters and deftly handles his many young actors. The physically imposing Nurjuman Ikhtimbayev turns in a legitimately touching performance as Kasym, the gentle giant. Dalen Shintemirov comes across quite naturally on-screen, neither cloying nor affected in the role of young Sashka.

Told in flashbacks by the adult Sashka, now safely residing in Israel, Gift is an unabashedly sentimental story of sacrifice and thanksgiving, but honestly earns its emotional pay-off. To its credit, the film does not whitewash the realities of life under Stalinism, particularly for the ethnic minorities banished to the Eurasian republics. One of the best films of this year’s New York Jewish Film Festival, Gift screens once tonight and twice on Monday (1/26) at the Lincoln Center’s Walter Reade Theater.

A/P/A: Koryo Saram

It was a massive displacement of innocent civilians motivated by a baseless suspicion they might sympathize with the Japanese during World War II. Few have heard of it, because the offending government was the Soviet Union. Known as Koryo Saram, they were Soviet Koreans, forcibly exiled to Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan on Stalin’s orders. Their story is told in Y. David Chung and Matt Dibble’s documentary, Koryo Saram: The Unreliable People (extended trailer here), which screened last night as part of the film series sponsored by NYU’s Asian/Pacific/American Institute.

Largely, but not exclusively from the Northern provinces of Korea, many of these Soviet Koreans were refugees from the occupying Japanese. However, they were not deemed sufficiently loyal by Stalin, who dubbed them “Unreliable People.” Victims of the Great Terror, an estimated 180,000 Koryo Saram were rounded up and deported in cramped boxcars to the Central Asian Steppe. Kazakhstan in particular became Stalin’s dumping ground for various undesirable ethnicities, where the combination of harsh winters and little or no shelter led to a high mortality rate among deportees.

Inevitably, comparisons were made in the Q&A to FDR’s Japanese interment policies, but the brutality of the Soviet was in a league of its own. Thousands died in-transit in what became known as “Ghost Trains,” with their bodies callously tossed out at each stop, in violation of Korean tradition requiring proper burial for the peace of the spirit. However, credit is given to the formerly nomadic Kazakhs for showing a compassion which saved scores of deportees officially designated “enemies of the state” by the Communists.

Koryo is as much about Kazakhstan’s contemporary Koryo Saram community as it is with their tragic history. They usually have Russian names and speak Russian, as well as Korean dialect dating back to the early twentieth century. Reasonably well integrated, they maintain their own traditions as best they can in a rapidly changing Kazakhstan. As a twice diasporized people, their experience is deeply entwined with issues of cultural and ethnic identity.

Chung, Dibble and co-writer Meredith Jung-En Woo provide a succinct history of a largely ignored episode of Soviet terror, incorporating some rare archival footage and revealing oral histories. An informative installment in A/P/A’s film series, Koryo is screening on several campuses and the Library of Congress on October 9th. It is worth checking out if you have the opportunity.

Mongol from Kazakhstan

The Academy rules for what constitutes a foreign language film are sometimes controversial, but a film from Kazakhstan, by a Russian director, about Mongolia’s national hero, evidently qualified. That film, Mongol, the surprise best foreign language nominee, opens today in New York (trailer here).

If screening Mongol without the opening credits, one could easily be convinced it was a new subtitled blood-and-guts historical from Mel Gibson. Despite its exotic lineage, it has the elements of a traditional epic. The young Temudgin loses his father, but swears vengeance against his killer. He develops a Kane and Abel relationship with his childhood blood brother and future rival. Though often separated from his wife by the machinations of his enemies, he always finds her again, often pregnant with another dead husband lying at her feet. Characters from his past continually re-emerge to foretell his eventually greatness. Of course, they are not wrong, as Temudgin would eventually be known as Chinggis (or Genghis) Khan. Director Sergei Bodrov’s Mongol chronicles his early life, filling in some historical gaps with its own fictional speculation.

During the Soviet occupation, the Communists vilified the Mongolian hero, fearing his power as unifying symbol. (In 1962, they briefly flip-flopped on their anti-Khan propanganda, trying co-opt his national prestige.) Oddly, many in the west adopted Soviet characterizations of Chinggis Khan as a blood-thirsty savage, but his rule has been credited by scholars as the first anywhere to establish religious tolerance, women’s rights, the abolition torture, and lower tax rates for doctors, clergy, and teachers. To the pride of Mongolians, Khan was dubbed the “Man of the Millennium” by the Washington Post.

Some of the best scenes of Mongol show the seeds of Khan’s grand vision for a modern Mongolia in early germination. However, the film is really about sweeping historical drama, with many of scenes of armies clashing on the wind-swept steppe. There is plenty of hack-and-slash in Mongol, but action fans might feel cheated when the film’s mysticism trumps battle carnage.

Most of the Mongols in Mongol are played by Mongolians, but Japanese actor Tadanobu Asano plays Temudgin and Chinese actor Honglei Sun plays his one-time friend, Jamukha, with villainous relish. Probably the best performance comes from first-time Mongolian actor Khulan Chuluun as Temudgin’s resilient first wife and true love Borte. In many respects, Mongol is an old fashion epic love story, but it is a film Hollywood could not make these days because they do not have any young actors manly enough to play Temudgin.

Bodrov’s previous work includes co-scripting East/West, a critical examination of the Stalinist era. In a way, making Mongol can be seen as a further rejection of the Communist propaganda Bodrov grew up under. Granted, the constant parade of sufferings to be born gets exhausting, but the Twelfth Century was pretty much one darned thing after another. While sometimes the mysticism is laid on a little heavy, Bodrov keeps the action moving along at a good clip, showing a particular talent for grit and gore. It opens today in New York at the Landmark Sunshine.