Russian Cinema and Ideology

In the three years since the full-scale invasion of Ukraine began, a significant number of books have been published on the history, politics, and ideology of contemporary Russia. These books are written in various languages and reflect diverse perspectives, and yet they have one thing in common: they are all published outside Russia. Given the conditions of total censorship that now prevail inside the country, the publication of such books and their free discussion are inconceivable. This is precisely the reason why today it is so crucial to foster a critical dialogue concerning these texts, particularly from a leftist perspective, which is presently underrepresented in public discourse. 

We are launching a new column, entitled “A View from the Left,” in which we will review and analyze recently published books that deal with Russian realities. The column commences with historian Kostya Tsimlyansky’s review of the book by film critic Anton Dolin “The Bad Russians: Cinema from ‘Brother’ to ‘the Boy’s Word,’” published by Meduza in 2024. 

Since February 24, 2022, there have been ongoing discussions about the motives behind Putin’s decision to launch a full-scale invasion of Ukraine. Some experts (e.g., American political scientist John Mearsheimer) regard the Russian president as a rational political leader protecting the interests of his country. However, other political commentators believe that one of the main reasons behind the war was the establishment of a state ideology in Russia, with Putin himself becoming an adherent of this ideology. Since the beginning of the invasion this position has gained traction among an increasing number of political scientists and political journalists. Many of them note that Putin’s ideology lacks a coherent character, consisting instead of an eclectic set of narratives and myths. These myths are employed both to prepare society for upcoming political decisions and to justify previously undertaken actions. To effectively fulfill their role, such narratives and myths must be integrated into the public speeches by the nation’s leaders and into the daily lives of ordinary citizens. 

In contemporary societies, cinema has assumed a role analogous to that of literature in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Alongside other forms of popular culture, it serves as one of the predominant vehicles for the production and dissemination of ideology. However, due to its unique production processes, cinema demands more substantial financial investment  compared to other forms of cultural production. In Russia, where much of private capital is intricately intertwined with the ruling class, such financial support can only be provided by the state or entities closely affiliated with it. As a result, a comprehensive study of Putinism — assuming such an ideology indeed exists — necessitates an analysis of popular Russian films and TV series, both those directly commissioned by the state and those only indirectly associated with it. 

In his book Bad Russians, Anton Dolin offers a unique perspective on Putin's ideology by analyzing Russian mass cinema. Dolin, a regular contributor to Meduza and former editor of the Art of Cinema magazine, is widely regarded as Russia's most prominent film critic. He left the country in 2022 due to his anti-war stance. While his analysis of mass Russian cinema in recent decades has its limitations, which shall be discussed below, it nonetheless merits serious discussion. 

Dolin’s position aligns with that of political scientists and political journalists who recognize a comprehensive ideological framework behind Putin’s regime. In the preface to his book, Dolin outlines the ideology of Putinism as “a set of beliefs and dogmas that have paved the way for the present state and societal developments.” He claims that contemporary Russian cinema offers a particularly effective medium for the study of this ideology. Given its mass appeal, cinema serves as a reflection of prevailing societal values, as viewers naturally seek out films that align with their personal views. Although Dolin does not explicitly mention it, his argument subtly indicates that, in his opinion, Putinism doesn’t just represent the ideology of Putin or the ruling elite, but also a significant segment of Russian society, which is the demographic targeted by mass cinema. 

However, Dolin asserts that Russian cinema functions not only as a reflection of audience sentiments but also as a catalyst for shaping these sentiments through the medium of narratives and myths promoted by the state. The transformation of Russian cinema into a propaganda instrument took place in the 2000s, a period that witnessed the gradual establishment of a system of state support for cinema, effectively leading to its management by the state when “a system of state support for cinema and, in fact, its management was gradually formed.” Indeed, since Putin’s rise to power, there has been a steady increase in state spending on cinema, resulting in the Russian film industry’s complete dependence on the state. The distribution of budgets primarily occurs through the federal organization, Cinema Fund, which included Dolin on its expert council until 2020. According to the publication Verstka, the Fund's grant aid to a single film averaged 53.3 million rubles in 2021, and by 2024, it had increased to 153.3 million. At the same time, Dolin has noted that the state exercised its influence over the film industry not only through the sponsorship of films on ideologically significant topics but also through censorship measures aimed at delineating between acceptable and unacceptable subjects. Dolin characterizes such censorship as “hybrid,” noting that it is “not always explicitly formulated” and “based on a series of tacit compromises.” 

This concludes the preliminary remarks on the Russian film industry, and Dolin moves on to analyzing films. The book is divided into ten chapters, each dedicated to films of a particular subject and genre, including gangster sagas, war dramas, comedies, disaster films, and fairy tales. Dolin focuses solely on mass movies and TV series, viewing them as representative samples of Putin-era popular culture. In some cases, he also examines films from the 1990s, such as Alexei Balabanov's Brother and Nikita Mikhalkov's The Barber of Siberia, identifying in them the ideas that resonate with Putin's discourse. 

Dolin’s analysis of the films is consistent, encompassing an overview of the historical context, a concise plot summary, a discussion of film critics' reviews (including his own), and, in some instances, the subsequent trajectory of the filmmakers following February 24, 2022. A notable feature of Dolin’s approach is his meticulous examination of the problematic messages conveyed by the films, whether chauvinism, the apology for violence, the glorification of “strong arm” tactics, and the glossing over of state crimes. However, Dolin refrains from drawing far-reaching conclusions about the transformation of major tropes and plot structures over time. The book Bad Russians functions more as a chronicle of Russian mass cinema over the past three decades than a scholarly study. Like a chronicle, Dolin's book ends abruptly before reaching the present day. As the author himself writes in the afterword: “Such a book cannot have an ending. While the book is being written and assembled, cinematography continues to evolve, develop, or degrade, and new, vibrant phenomena continue to emerge.” Dolin's reluctance to offer at least a preliminary summary of its contents greatly limits the book’s critical potential. Rather than offering a definitive statement on the role of ideology in Russian cinema, the author presents readers with a series of examples but fails to provide a comprehensive program for rethinking Russian and Russian-speaking culture in recent years. The sole exception to this is his recommendation that pop-cultural phenomena must be subjected to more rigorous analysis. 

However, the book is vulnerable to criticism for more than just this reason. Dolin repeatedly uses the concept of Putinism but fails to provide a precise definition of its intended meaning. It is unclear whether the term refers to a system of traditional ideas or whether it is a manifestation of Althusser's notion of ideology, understood as everyday practices embedded within power relations. This ambiguity in the definition of "Putinism" can be seen across different sections of the book. In certain sections, Dolin characterizes Putinism as a nexus of problematic ideas ranging from domestic racism to the cult of the “heroic past,” while in others he analyzes the relationship between popular cinema and social rituals, such as the collective viewing of “Old Songs about the Main Things” on New Year's Eve and family trips to see “Christmas Trees.” If we adhere to the first definition, then it is necessary to explain how exactly Putinism differs from other authoritarian regimes that appeal to a similar set of “traditional values.” In turn, an analysis of ideology as a composite of practices and rituals necessitates a heightened focus on the social dimension, transcending the conventional boundaries of film criticism. In any case, for a book that has chosen ideology as its object of study, Bad Russians devotes a meager amount of time to a thorough discussion of the very concept of ideology. 

Furthermore, Dolin’s work does not incorporate a historical perspective on Putinism, suggesting that the ideological underpinnings of the Russian ruling regime have remained static over the past two decades. At the very least, this is a debatable statement. As political scientist Nikita Savin notes in an article for the Re:Russia website, while prior to 2008, Putin “maintained the image of himself as the nation's president,” the situation began to change after the Bolotnaya Square protests of 2011-2013. The response to the political mobilization of the educated urban class manifested not solely through intensified repressions but also through an ideological shift characterized by conservatism. Under the new paradigm, Russian society is depicted as divided into two distinct groups: the majority of “ordinary people” who adhere to the “traditional values” propagated by the state — reliance on family, paternalism, religiosity — and the “white ribbon” minority, allegedly under the influence of the West. The geopolitical shifts, such as the annexation of Crimea in March 2014 and the ensuing armed invasion of eastern Ukraine, also had a serious impact on the official discourse of the time, in which ideologies related to nationalism and “Russian messianism” began to play an increasingly prominent role. Assuming the direct or indirect correlation between mass cinema and state ideology, one would naturally attempt to trace these changes. However, Dolin does not undertake such an analysis. 

Moreover, as Russian film critic Konstantin Shavlovsky highlighted in an interview with Dolin, Bad Russians is founded upon a teleological conception that posits the evolution of Russian cinema in recent decades as if it inexorably led to war and dictatorship. This approach is understandable and valid; after all, historical narratives always bear the imprint of the moment when they are written. The problem is that Dolin does not reflect on how the war against Ukraine and other recent events affect his perception of the history of Russian cinema, which sometimes leads to controversial assertions. For instance, Dolin suggests that the totalitarian regime depicted in Fyodor Bondarchuk's sci-fi dystopia Inhabited Island (2008) — the film based on the Strugatsky brothers' novel of the same name — foreshadows late Putinism. However, Dolin disregards the fact that depicting such regimes is a standard trope in anti-utopian films, as exemplified by Terry Gilliam's Brazil or Steven Spielberg's Minority Report. Interpreting it as a prediction appears to be a stretch. While certain episodes in these films may resonate with real-life scenarios, this is more likely a result of the common generic features shared by political regimes characterized by an unlimited power of the leader and suppression of civil liberties. However, these parallels alone are insufficient for a comprehensive analysis of Putin’s regime and its ideology. Furthermore, such analogies hinder our ability to recognize that Putin's dictatorship is a historical phenomenon that emerged due to specific historical circumstances, including the collapse of the USSR, the disastrous socio-economic policies of the Russian leadership in the 1990s, and high oil prices, among other things. It should not be perceived as another manifestation of the abstract regime of “absolute evil” often depicted in Hollywood action movies. 

The central tenet of Bad Russians suggests that Russian commercial cinema reflects its audience’s values because of its popularity. However, this assertion raises some questions. For instance, some of the films analyzed by Dolin were not financially successful, including such patriotic World War II films as We Are from the Future 2 (2010), Brest Fortress (2010), and Zoya (2020). Assuming that audiences consistently demonstrate a preference for films that resonate with their personal values, we can infer that films about the heroism of Soviet soldiers may not fit this criterion. Moreover, the audience's values mentioned by Dolin remain ambiguous. Given the diversity of Russian society, with its class, ethnic, and generational differences, it may be premature to assume that a unified, monolithic view of the past three decades is possible. Dolin effectively avoids addressing this issue, relying on such vague terms as “collective consciousness” and “cultural code.” While it is certainly worthwhile to explore public sentiments surrounding mass cinema, such an investigation cannot be confined  to the analysis of films alone. Instead, it must incorporate a diverse array of research methods, including surveys, in-depth interviews, and other established sociological techniques. Unfortunately, Dolin does none of this, although he states in the afterword that his primary interest lies not in the filmmakers but in the audience, whose perspective he seeks to comprehend and articulate. 

However, as I have previously noted, Dolin is interested not only in the passive (“reflective”) but also in the active role of cinema as a tool for constructing new ideological narratives and reinterpreting existing ones. Film criticism offers a more effective framework for examining this than for studying the audience’s perception of the world. In particular, the most compelling segments in Bad Russians are the ones where Dolin examines specific films, highlighting the ideological underpinnings of even those films that are far from pressing political issues. Thus, in the chapter “Apology of Stagnation,” Dolin analyzes Valery Todorovsky's musical film Stilyagi (2008) [translator’s note: stilyagi were members of a youth counterculture from in the Soviet Union]. The film, set in Moscow in 1955, portrays a group of young people who emulate American pop culture and challenge Soviet society. The protagonist of the film, Mels, falls in love with Paulina (or Polza, as her friends call her) and, under her influence, begins to play the saxophone, dress provocatively, and wear a retro hairstyle. Soon, Polza has a son with another man, and Mels, without hesitation, accepts the child as his own. As the movie draws to a close, the group of stilyagi disbands: one member enlists in the navy, another is imprisoned, and a third is expelled from Moscow. Mels' friend Fred, whose father has worked in the Foreign Ministry, secures a position at the embassy in the USA. Upon his return to the USSR, he informs Mels, who is taken aback by this, that there are no stilyagi in the USA. The film concludes with a scene depicting Mels and Polza strolling down Tverskaya Street in the center of Moscow. They are joined by members of different subcultures — punks, rockers, emos, and rappers — to sing the Chaif song “Shalyai-Walyai” together. Dolin notes the curious effect produced by the film’s final scene: although none of the characters' internal contradictions are resolved, Mels and Polza joyfully walk along Tverskaya surrounded by neformaly of all times [translator’s note: neformaly were members of various informal groups and youth subcultures in the late USSR]. Dolin highlights that the pursuit of freedom is depicted as a mirage that disappears with age. Such a conclusion neutralizes any subversive potential of stilyagi, reducing it to yet another story about the conflict between fathers and children, culminating in a predictable reconciliation and integration of the younger generation into the “normal” societal fabric. 

In the chapter on comedies, Dolin analyzes Gleb Orlov's film Our Russia: the Balls of Fate (2010), which tells the story of two migrant workers from Tajikistan who mistakenly steal Genghis Khan's golden eggs from a client’s apartment. In addition to the usual xenophobia, homophobia, and scatological humor reminiscent of the popular Russian sketch show Nasha Russia (analogous to the BBC show Little Britain), the film highlights social contradictions within Russian society in the early 2010s. Set in Moscow, the film portrays a city divided into oligarchs and “doshirarkovs,” i.e. people who eat Doshirak instant noodles, which have become a symbol of poverty in modern Russia. At the same time, the film seems to be trying to mitigate class tensions by making migrant workers, rather than their unscrupulous bosses, the primary targets of ridicule. Dolin sums up his analysis in the following way: “Nasha Russia effectively channels the profound dissatisfaction of the audience with their current economic situation and releases negative emotions through laughter — but it is directed not so much against the supposed ‘class enemy’ as at various other targets.” Expanding on this, we can note that Gleb Orlov's film endeavors to resolve class contradictions by shifting the narrative focus towards a confrontation between “our people” and “others” (“Russians” versus “non-Russians”). In this regard, Our Russia mirrors a prevailing trend in the contemporary political landscape of the Russian state. 

It is important to pay attention to one circumstance that Dolin himself does not mention.  Stilyagi, Our Russia, and many other films examined in the book are not just vehicles for specific ideas. Instead, in the words of Fredric Jameson, these films function as ideological acts. These films address controversial themes in Russian society, such as generational conflict, conformism, economic inequality, exploitation of migrant workers, and so on. However, rather than delving into the root causes of these social contradictions, they offer symbolic or, as Jameson writes, “formal” solutions to them. This approach creates an illusion that the depicted issues are less severe and do not necessitate intervention from the audience. It is in this, and not in fostering nostalgia for the USSR or reproducing offensive stereotypes (which deserve unconditional condemnation), that the main ideological significance of such films as Stilyagi and Our Russia lies. 

We can identify one more conceptual problem with Bad Russians. It is hard to deny that many of the ideological elements in popular Russian films align with the ideas of the country's leadership. However, Dolin's book does not offer an in-depth analysis of this correlation, limiting itself to a broad statement. At least some of the criticisms of the book are related to this fact. Thus, film critic Zinaida Prochenko has expressed concerns with Dolin's assertion regarding the connection between the content of Russian films and the actions of the Russian leadership, labeling it as a “risky generalization.” 

While it would be unwise to claim causation between mass Russian cinema and the war in Ukraine, it would also be imprudent to completely exclude cinema from the discussion of the underlying factors that led to the invasion of Ukraine. While movies, even blatantly propagandistic ones, do not zombie people, they do offer specific perspectives on the world and establish a language for discussing it. Balabanov's Brother 2 with its anti-Western and anti-Ukrainian sentiments did not cause the war with Ukraine, but it offered an image of the world in which such a war was not only possible but also justifiable. 

Finally, while Dolin's decision to focus his book on the most problematic aspects of Russian cinema and its connection to Putinism is understandable, viewing all of Russian cinema and, more broadly, the culture of recent decades solely in this way would be a misinterpretation. It would ignore the voices of those who spoke out against nationalism, arrogance toward “others,” the cult of the “strong hand,” and other ideas that led us to the catastrophe of February 24. These voices have the potential to establish a progressive cultural tradition but to do so, they must be examined, contextualized, and connected. It is essential to recognize them as trends rather than isolated incidents. Dolin has initiated this exploration by examining the “utopian pacifism” depicted in Alexander Rogozhkin's comedy Peculiarities of National Hunting (1995) and the anti-patriarchal themes present in Mikhail Lokshin's film Silver Skates (2020). However, he has not elaborated upon these observations. To summarize, it is essential to complement such existing works as Bad Russians with an alternative history of Russian cinema that focuses on the future rather than the past. This is a research area that remains yet to be explored. 

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