The film, which initially appeared to be a simple costume drama about the lives of 1930s writers, unexpectedly turned out to be relevant and connected to today’s life. A new Ukrainian feature film titled “Budynok Slovo. Neskinchenyi roman” (Slovo House. Unfinished Novel) has been released. It was directed by Taras Tomenko, who also co-wrote the screenplay with writer Lyubov Yakimchuk. The cinematographer is Mykhailo Liubarskyi, and the composer is Alla Zahaikevych.
The plot revolves around the lives of Ukrainian writers and artists in the early 1930s, a period later known as the Executed Renaissance. After the 1917 revolution and the defeat of the struggle for Ukrainian independence, they actively participated in a cultural revolution. By tolerating and, to varying degrees, supporting the newly established Soviet power, they began to create a new, vibrant, and diverse literature. This literature was rich in genres, themes, and styles, ranging from restrained neoclassicism to extravagant futurism. However, as the experimental 1920s drew to a close, along with their relatively uninhibited artistic ventures, private economic endeavours, remnants of pluralism in the socio-political landscape, and the promotion of Ukrainian culture (also known as ‘Ukrainisation’), and with the solidification of Stalin’s dictatorship, the emerging creative class swiftly became targets of the 1930s repressions. Among the chapters of this history was the Slovo House in Kharkiv, then the capital of Soviet Ukraine. Erected in 1930 primarily for Kharkiv writers, the building’s aerial view resembled the letter “C” [which is read as ‘S’ in Ukrainian – ed.]. Initially, its commendable living conditions pleased the residents. However, it soon became evident that the primary intent behind establishing the Slovo was not solely to enhance the bohemians’ comfort but rather to keep them under surveillance. Subsequently, it facilitated the easier apprehension of writers congregated within its walls.
In the early 1930s, the film “Slovo House” follows the story of a young poet, Volodymyr Akimov, as he arrives in Kharkiv with dreams of making it big. His excitement soars as he secures a room in the prestigious Slovo building, seeing it as his ticket to the literary world. With visions of mingling with esteemed authors, attending exclusive gatherings, and building invaluable connections, Akimov’s hopes are quickly dashed. The residents of the Slovo featuring prominent figures such as Mykola Khvyliovyi, Mykhayl Semenko, Raisa Troyanker, Volodymyr Sosiura, Pavlo Tychyna, Maik Yohansen, and Arkadii Liubchenko, not only dislike Akimov’s poetry but openly ridicule him, branding him as a mere hack writer. The painful disappointment fundamentally transforms Akimov: from a confused and smiling, naive, clumsy person, he turns into an angry and cunning man hungry for revenge and power. In the realities of the Soviet 1930s, it’s easy to find those who will help him with revenge, power, and even fame. These are the NKVD. They have an offer: to spy on the writers, receive money, significant positions, and recognition. All this unfolds against the backdrop of the deepening catastrophe of Stalinism: the Holodomor, ruthless censorship, mass arrests, and the suicide of one of the generation’s leaders, Mykola Khvylovy (played by Viacheslav Dovzhenko)…
Quite a niche topic, wouldn’t you agree? Yet, a film exploring the intricacies of writers’ lives a century ago has struck a chord. It’s become a topic of discussion, quoting, and debate. Ukrainian social media is abuzz with distinctive black-and-white snapshots from “Slovo House” — the film opted for a black-and-white aesthetic, oscillating between starkly sunny scenes and deep darkness. Coupled with an intriguing attempt to recreate the minutiae of 1930s daily life and Alla Zahaikevych’s musical cues, it creates a stylized effect. An interesting observation: “Slovo House” hit the screens almost simultaneously with Iryna Tsilyk’s “Felix and Me” which also indulges in recreation and stylization, albeit this time capturing the essence of the 1990s.
What has drawn so much attention to Taras Tomenko’s film? The first reason is quite clear — simple parallels with the present day. Just as the Russian Stalinist regime of the 1930s devastated Ukraine’s population through hunger and repression, today, Russian Putinism (it’s no coincidence that Akimov bears a vague resemblance to a young Putin) is killing Ukrainians with war. It also seeks to break their spirit. To erase, as we’ve seen in the occupied territories, their language and culture. Against this backdrop, the idea of setting up a bomb shelter and an air raid drill in the writers’ house, which sounds on screen exactly as it does in reality outside the cinema, is received with bitter irony. When I watched the film, there was an air raid alarm, but no one cancelled the screening.
Another aspect of the film’s relevance is its depiction of brutality. While “Slovo House” doesn’t feature many traumatic scenes, the brutality intensifies in a noticeable crescendo from start to finish, sometimes even too bluntly. It transitions from calm bohemian relaxation to a fight over harsh critiques of poems, from anxious conversations with NKVD officers to beatings during arrests and shootings, from lavish feasts to the death of a starving village child in the arms of the writer Khvylovy, and from mild flirtations to rape. There are two scenes of sexual violence in the film, which serve as peaks of pure brutality, sharp and unexpected, making them all the more painful.
Despite the film beginning production in the last decade under different circumstances, it astonishingly resonates with the present moment. The wave of brutality is rising not only in Ukraine, where the war is accompanied by the invaders’ atrocities and the inevitable archaisation and bitterness beyond the battlefield, but also globally. There are also attempts to ‘tighten the screws’, gradually and under respectable pretexts, to impose censorship, close doors, windows, and vents in society, and replace discussions with doublethink. These unfortunate associations are evoked by the film, and the dark times depicted on a screen do not seem so exotic, strange, or unfamiliar.
Of course, “Slovo House” is part of the global trend of increased attention to history and its re-evaluation. In times of crisis, we find ourselves reflecting not only on “where we are now” but also on where we came from, and we try to understand what we have hastily packed in our metaphorical bags. This is why the film carefully examines details like the shoes worn by the renowned 20th-century actress Natalia Uzhviy (played by Slava Krasovska). This attention to detail extends to meticulously recreating actual lines and incidents. For example, many viewers today, in the context of the war with Russia, feel nervous and surprised by Mykola Khvylovy’s performance of a Russian romance before his suicide. However, this scene stays true to historical accuracy, illustrating the phrase, “You can’t take the words out of the song.” The film also reshuffles the literary canon, making figures like the poet Raisa Troyanker (played by Valeria Khodos) one of the key characters.
A poet who was considered quite marginal during her lifetime, Raisa Troyanker was generally treated as such in the history of Ukrainian literature. Only recently has more attention been paid to her biography and texts. In the film, Troyanker is portrayed vividly and actively, though with an insistently erotic undertone (it’s worth noting that her image in the 1920s-1930s was indeed overtly sexualized). Unfortunately, other creative women in the Slovo House barely have a voice. This, however, prompts reflection on the role of women in the literary world of Soviet Ukraine during those years.
Taras Tomenko’s film raises the issue of the literary canon in a gender context. It doesn’t confine itself to the traditional male perspective on the history of the 1920s-1930s, which is immortalized in the national myth, but it also touches on the female perspective. It is no coincidence that it is a woman, a cook, who enacts revenge at the end of the film (with a touch of irony: she poisons the main villain with semolina porridge) and escapes in a bread delivery van. This same van, used later in the 1930s to transport prisoners, helps her break free from the trap of the Slovo House.
