French diplomat and writer Anthelme Vidaud discusses his latest book, “Ciné-Ukraine, histoire(s) d’indépendance” which explores the impact of Ukrainian cinema on global cinematography and the phenomenon of Ukrainian director Serhiy Loznitsa.
— How did you come across Ukrainian cinema?
— I spent nine years living and working in Ukraine. Initially, I served as the attaché for audiovisual arts at the French Institute in Ukraine from 2011 to 2013, overseeing cinematographic cooperation between France and Ukraine. Then, in 2014, I became involved with the Odessa Festival, first as a program coordinator and later as a program director until 2020. Throughout this time, I witnessed the impressive resurgence of Ukrainian cinema across various formats: short films, documentaries, animation, and feature films.
My role offered me the opportunity to immerse myself in countless films. At the Odesa Festival, we received up to 200 Ukrainian submissions annually, ranging from feature-length to short films. The competition focused on national cinema expanded both in terms of quantity and quality each year, and we played a part in elevating this burgeoning wave. Upon leaving Ukraine in October 2020, I felt compelled to preserve this rich experience. I began conducting remote interviews with diverse Ukrainian directors. The insights gathered were captivating, offering a vibrant depiction of Ukrainian cinema and its profound connections to art, society, politics, and even conflict. The concept for the book emerged organically from this exploration.
— How much time did you dedicate to working on this book?
— It was a span of two full years in total. The initial interview kicked off in February 2021, and I wrapped up the final manuscript by April 2023. At first, my writing was quite sporadic; I was doing it mainly for personal reasons, not considering publication. However, when the full-scale invasion unfolded, I felt it was crucial to complete the book and began actively seeking a publisher. In September 2022, I reached out to WARM Publishing, a small independent outfit based in western France, led by two enthusiasts, Willy Duran and Armelle Paine. They requested the full manuscript, which accelerated the writing process, essentially nudging me to conclude the book. I’m immensely grateful to them for their trust and unwavering support throughout the entire endeavour.
— What, in your view, is the most significant contribution of Ukrainian cinema to global filmmaking?
– Ukraine has a rich cinematic legacy. Some of the films produced during the Soviet era stand out as masterpieces in the history of cinema: Dziga Vertov’s “Man with a Movie Camera” (1929), Oleksandr Dovzhenko’s “Earth” (1930), Sergei Parajanov’s “Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors” (1965)… Additionally, directors such as Mark Donskyy, Yuriy Ilyenko, Kira Muratova, and Roman Balayan worked at Ukrainian studios. What’s fascinating is that not all of these directors were necessarily ethnically Ukrainian, yet they all thrived in Ukraine’s robust production environment (with studios like Kyiv and Odesa pioneering filmmaking in the USSR) and enjoyed more creative freedom compared to Moscow, despite facing censorship. These films left a lasting impact globally; Chaplin even regarded “Earth” as one of his favourites. Vertov’s groundbreaking experiments influenced filmmakers ranging from Jean-Luc Godard to Chris Marker, while Parajanov remains a revered figure among cinephiles.
– What are your thoughts on the work of the rather controversial Ukrainian director Serhiy Loznitsa?
– Loznitsa is a talented filmmaker who initially gained recognition through his documentary work, often utilising archival footage. His films delve into themes of memory and the significance of images in shaping it. While he holds Ukrainian citizenship, he hasn’t resided there for over two decades. Most of his projects are European co-productions. In recent years, he has focused on creating a series of films centred around Ukraine, including “Maidan” (2014), “Donbas” (2018), and “Babyn Yar. Context” (2021).
On the international stage, Loznitsa is highly regarded, having been a regular participant at the Cannes Film Festival since his debut feature, “My Joy,” in 2010. In Ukraine, he was also well-regarded and recognised, at least until 2021. For instance, “Donbas” received multiple accolades from the Ukrainian Film Academy. However, Loznitsa’s reputation has been somewhat tarnished by certain statements he made. His film “Babyn Yar. Context,” selected for Cannes in 2021, was perceived as misleading regarding Ukrainian attitudes during the mass atrocities committed by the Nazis in World War II. Loznitsa implies in the film that the population unquestionably supported the Third Reich, a claim disputed by historical sources. Furthermore, at the onset of the 2022 invasion of Ukraine, he publicly opposed any critical examination of Russian culture and criticised his Ukrainian colleagues who took such a stance, despite the cultural dimension of Russia’s war against Ukraine. This position has been widely condemned in Ukraine.
– In your book, you delineate the political distinctions between Ukrainians and Russians concerning their perspectives on authority. When it comes to artistic disparities in film styles, how would you characterise them, and to what extent do you find them evident and identifiable?
I’m not sure if it’s possible to immediately discern a film’s national identity solely from its style, as each director creates their own unique universe. However, I believe Ukrainian cinema underwent significant changes after the Revolution of Dignity in 2013-2014. Prior to that, and since gaining independence, it was heavily influenced by Soviet and Russian cinematography. Directors like Andrei Tarkovsky set the standard for aspiring filmmakers, and the works of contemporary Russian directors such as Andrey Zvyagintsev, Alexander Sokurov, and Alexey German were highly esteemed. The connections between Ukrainian and Russian film professionals remained robust, with some Ukrainian directors even receiving training in Russia, like Myroslav Slaboshpytskyi and Kateryna Gornostai. However, Maidan marked a complete shift in this direction. Instead of drawing inspiration from Soviet and Russian cinema, Ukrainians began to explore European, North American, Asian, and Latin American films. For instance, filmmakers like Nariman Aliev from Crimea find inspiration in the works of independent American filmmaker Gus Van Sant, as well as in Turkish cinema by Nuri Bilge Ceylan and Iranian director Asghar Farhadi. Nowadays, when you watch a contemporary Ukrainian film, you’ll notice much less of the post-Soviet aesthetics compared to Russian cinema.
– How does the war affect cinema, and to what extent do artists become politicised in the face of Russian military aggression?
– The impact of the war is profound. With the transition to a wartime economy, state funding for film production has halted. While documentaries continue to be independently produced, the creation of feature films in Ukraine has become exceedingly challenging. In terms of artists, many have enlisted in the military, including directors such as Oleg Sentsov, Alisa Kovalenko, and Olena Maksym, along with actors, producers, screenwriters, editors, cinematographers, and others. Some have found themselves on the front lines, others injured, taken prisoner, or worse. Ukrainian cinema, like society as a whole, has borne a heavy toll due to the Russian invasion.
Beyond those directly involved in combat, there are those who, armed with cameras, document Russia’s war crimes. A striking example is Mstyslav Chernov’s “20 Days in Mariupol” (2023), which portrays the harrowing siege of the city by the Russian army and earned an Oscar for Best Documentary Film.
Chernov’s remarks at the official ceremony poignantly reflect the state of Ukrainian cinema: while such a film ideally wouldn’t exist (“I wish I didn’t have to make this film”), cinema serves a vital purpose in ensuring we never forget the atrocities (“cinema shapes memory and memory shapes history”).
— Can art make the world a better place?
– This question touches on complex territory. For Ukraine, it’s undeniable that art is deeply intertwined with its identity. Imagine Ukraine without Shevchenko, without Lesya Ukrainka, without Dovzhenko—such a notion is inconceivable. The havoc wreaked by Russia’s war is intrinsically tied to its aim of erasing Ukrainian identity, which finds expression through language and culture. The deliberate targeting of printing houses, like the largest one razed in Kharkiv, isn’t happenstance; it signifies Russia’s intolerance towards the very existence of Ukrainian language publications. Since the onset of the full-scale invasion, many artists, particularly Ukrainian filmmakers, have grappled with agonizing questions: Does creating art hold any purpose in a nation facing imminent obliteration? Should they trade their cameras for firearms? Does art lose its significance in the shadow of potential genocide? Each person has their own response. Some take up arms, while others continue to create. Personally, I believe that Ukraine’s resilience will shine through art, just as it does through weaponry. Whether it can make the world better remains uncertain, but it unequivocally allows Ukraine to assert that it endures despite adversity.
