Soviet Cinema

Published and forthcoming in KINO: The Russian Cinema Series

Series Editor: Richard Taylor

Advisory Board: Birgit Beumers, Julian Graffy, Denise Youngblood

Central Asian Cinema: A Complete Companion

Edited by Michael Rouland and Gulnara Abikeyeva

Cinema and Soviet Society: From the Revolution to the Death of Stalin
Peter Kenez

The Cinema of the New Russia

Birgit Beumers

Dziga Vertov: Defining Documentary Film

Jeremy Hicks

Film Propaganda: Soviet Russia and Nazi Germany (second, revised edition)
Richard Taylor

Forward Soviet!: History and Non-Fiction Film in the USSR

Graham Roberts

Real Images: Soviet Cinema and the Thaw

Josephine Woll

Russia on Reels: The Russian Idea in Post-Soviet Cinema

Edited by Birgit Beumers

Savage Junctures: Sergei Eisenstein and the Shape of Thinking

Anne Nesbet

Soviet Cinema: Politics and Persuasion under Stalin

Jamie Miller

The Stalinist Musical: Mass Entertainment and Soviet Cinema

Richard Taylor

Vsevolod Pudovkin: Classic Films of the Soviet Avant-Garde

Amy Sargeant
 Soviet Cinema
Politics and Persuasion under Stalin

Jamie Miller
Published in 2010 by I.B.Tauris & Co Ltd
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Distributed in the United States and Canada Exclusively by Palgrave Macmillan

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Copyright © 2010 Jamie Miller

The right of Jamie Miller to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted
by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in a review, this book, or any part thereof,
may not be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted,
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ISBN: 978 1 84885 008 8 (HB)

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Set in 12pt Baskerville by Joe Murray in Glasgow, Scotland.

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from camera-ready copy edited and supplied by the author
For my wife, Sofia
 KINO: THE RUSSIAN CINEMA SERIES
General Editor’s Preface

C
inema has been the predominant art form of the first half of the
twentieth century, at least in Europe and North America. Nowhere
was this more apparent than in the former Soviet Union, where
Lenin’s remark that ‘of all the arts, cinema is the most important’ became
a cliché and where cinema attendances were until recently still among
the highest in the world. In the age of mass politics Soviet cinema
developed from a fragile but effective tool to gain support among the
overwhelmingly illiterate peasant masses in the civil war that followed
the October 1917 Revolution, through a welter of experimentation, into
a mass weapon of propaganda through the entertainment that shaped
the public image of the Soviet Union – both at home and abroad for
both elite and mass audiences – and latterly into an instrument to expose
the weaknesses of the past and present in the twin process of glasnost and
perestroika. Now the national cinemas of the successor republics to the old
USSR are encountering the same bewildering array of problems, from
the trivial to the terminal, as are all the other ex-Soviet institutions.
Cinema’s central position in Russian and Soviet cultural history and
its unique combination of mass medium, art form and entertainment
industry, have made it a continuing battlefield for conflicts of broader
ideological and artistic significance, not only for Russia and the Soviet
Union, but also for the world outside. The debates that raged in the
1920s about the relative merits of documentary as opposed to fiction
film, of cinema as opposed to theatre or painting, or of the proper role
of cinema in the forging of post-Revolutionary Soviet culture and the
shaping of the new Soviet man, have their echoes in current discussions
about the role of cinema vis-à-vis other art forms in effecting the cultural
and psychological revolution in human consciousness necessitated by
the processes of economic and political transformation of the former
Soviet Union into modern democratic and industrial societies and states
governed by the rule of law. Cinema’s central position has also made it
a vital instrument for scrutinising the blank pages of Russian and Soviet
history and enabling the present generation to come to terms with its
own past.
This series of books intends to examine Russian, Soviet and ex-Soviet
films in the context of Russian, Soviet and ex-Soviet cinemas, and Russian,
Soviet and ex-Soviet cinemas in the context of the political history of
Russia, the Soviet Union, the post-Soviet ‘space’ and the world at large.
Within that framework the series, drawing its authors from both East and
West, aims to cover a wide variety of topics and to employ a broad range
of methodological approaches and presentational formats. Inevitably this
will involve ploughing once again over old ground in order to re-examine
received opinions, but it principally means increasing the breadth and
depth of our knowledge, finding new answers to old questions and, above
all, raising new questions for further enquiry and new areas for further
research.
The continuing aim of this series is to situate Russian, Soviet and ex-
Soviet cinema in its proper historical and aesthetic context, both as a
major cultural force and as a crucible for experimentation that is of central
significance to the development of world cinema culture. Books in the
series strive to combine the best of scholarship, past, present and future,
with a style of writing that is accessible to a broad readership, whether
that readership’s primary interest lies in cinema or in political history.

Richard Taylor
Swansea, Wales
 CONTENTS

xi List of Illustrations
xiii Acknowledgements
xv Note on Transliteration

1 Introduction
15 Chapter 1 Film Administration and Industry
Development
53 Chapter 2 Censorship
71 Chapter 3 The Purges
91 Chapter 4 Thematic Planning
105 Chapter 5 Representation and Reach:
Cinema Unions and Societies
121 Chapter 6 A Tale of Two Studios:
Mezhrabpomfilm and Mosfilm
139 Chapter 7 Film Education and Training
154 Chapter 8 Film-makers and Film-making
179 Conclusion

185 Notes
203 Bibliography
211 Filmography
215 Index
 xi

ILLUSTRATIONS
Page
25 A cartoon sketch of a couple leaving an outdoor cinema in the
countryside. In a humourous reference to the regular piecing together
of different film fragments, the couple say to one another: ‘What did
you like most of all in the film?...I liked the part where Dzhulbars bit
Dubrovsky on the golden lake’. From Kino, June 1935.
27 A caricature of foreign film stars sitting on top of one another. The
description reads: ‘What a tolerant audience!’ From Vecherniaia
Moskva, 26 July 1933.
55 A Russian version of an advert for the foreign film Moulin Rouge
(1929). Private collection.
68 Still of the main characters from the film The Hearts of Four (1941).
Courtesy of the Museum of Cinema, Moscow.
84 Photograph of Boris Shumiatsky when he was arrested (1938). The
picture shows that Shumiatsky was not even given the opportunity
to get properly dressed, before being taken away by the NKVD.
Courtesy of the Museum of Cinema, Moscow.
95 Still of actor Boris Chirkov from The Youth of Maksim (1934).
Courtesy of the Museum of Cinema, Moscow.
97 Film poster for the film Lenin in 1918 (1939). Private collection.
103 A cartoon sketch of a bureaucrat pouring money into thematic
planning (1935). From Kino, July 1935.
124 Crowd scene from Protazanov’s Feast of Saint Jorgen (1930). Private
collection.
133 Still of Andrei Abrikosov in a rare moment of sobriety from the
film Stepan Razin (1938). Private collection.
155 Von Kneishchitz terrorises Marion Dixon in a scene from Circus
(1936). Private collection.
161 Still of the class enemy Kuganov, posing as a committed communist
in The Party Card (1936). Private collection.
xii

164 Still of the hero Shakhov from The Great Citizen (1937–39). Courtesy
of the Museum of Cinema, Moscow.
170 Film poster for the film Happiness (1934). Private collection.
 xiii

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

First of all, I wish to acknowledge the support of the Arts and Humanities
Research Council in the UK and the Department of Foreign Affairs and
International Trade, Canada who both provided the generous funding
that allowed me to write and complete this book. I also wish to thank the
following individuals: Richard Taylor who has provided me with
invaluable materials, constant support and constructive criticism; Birgit
Beumers for her advice and encouragement; Julian Graffy for kindly
arranging access to the SSEES library and film collection and Alastair
Renfrew who first suggested that I do a doctorate on the role of politics
in Soviet cinema during the Stalin era. I am also grateful to the staff of
various institutions, including the Russian State Archive of Literature
and Art (RGALI), The Russian State Library, Rusar publishers and the
Museum of Cinema in Moscow, Lenfilm in St Petersburg, the British
Library in London, IDC publishers in Holland and Esterum in Germany.
Part of chapter one was published in a different form under the title:
‘Soviet Cinema 1929–41: The Development of Industry and
Infrastructure’ in the journal Europe-Asia Studies in January 2006 (article
available at: http://www.informaworld.com). Chapter three has been
updated and shortened from the version entitled: ‘The Purges of Soviet
Cinema, 1929–38’, published in Studies in Russian and Soviet Cinema in
January 2007 (article available at: http://www.atypon-link.com). Chapter
seven is a shortened variant of an article entitled: ‘Educating the
Filmmakers: The State Institute of Cinematography in the 1930s’, in
the Slavonic and East European Review in July 2007 (article available at:
http://www.ingentaconnect.com). I am grateful to the publishers of
these journals for allowing me to reproduce and amend these materials
for this book.
 xv

NOTE ON TRANSLITERATION

Transliteration from the Cyrillic to the Latin alphabet is a perennial

problem for writers on Russian subjects. I have opted for a dual system:
in the text I have used the Library of Congress system (without diacritics),
but we have broken away from this system (a) when a Russian name has
a clear English version (e.g. Maria instead of Mariia, Alexander instead
of Aleksandr); (b) when a Russian name has an accepted English spelling,
or when Russian names are of Germanic origin (e.g. Meyerhold instead
of Meierkhol’d; Eisenstein instead of Eizenshtein); (c) when a Russian
name ends in –ii or –yi, this is replaced by a single –y (e.g. Dostoevsky) for
a surname and a single –i for a first name (e.g. Grigori, Sergei). In addition,
in order to aid pronunciation I have chosen Fyodor instead of Fedor,
Semyon instead of Semen, Yakov instead of Iakov, Yuli instead of Iuli
and Yevgeni instead of Evgenii. I also use the more familiar Politburo
instead of Politbiuro and Orgburo instead of Orgbiuro. In the scholarly
apparatus I have adhered to the Library of Congress system (with
diacritics) for the specialist.
 INTRODUCTION
Existing Research, Aims, Objectives and Methodology

T
he basic shape of the established Western approach to Soviet
cinema, which emerged in the 1930s, and still exists in a traditional,
‘totalitarian’ form of analysis, suggests that, under Stalinism, the
Soviet film industry was brought under the firm grip of an all-
embracing, centralised state and administrative system. This system
crushed the creative spirit of the 1920s and obliged film-makers to
become complicit in the creation of pro-regime film propaganda and
the imposition of an artistically weak socialist realist approach.1 Such
accounts were challenged by ‘revisionists’ who emerged in the 1970s
and 1980s. Richard Taylor began looking at Soviet cinema in the 1920s
from a political point of view, contending that the Party only began
to gain control of the medium at the end of the decade.2 Taylor soon
turned to the 1930s, arguing against the traditional film history
interpretation of the decline into socialist realism. He contended that,
while the aim of creating a ‘cinema for the millions’ was subject to
complex political and economic constraints, the film industry and in
particular its leader, Boris Shumiatsky, managed to lay the foundations
of a genuine mass form of politicised entertainment by the late 1930s.3
Taylor and Ian Christie have also provided researchers with invaluable
resources on Soviet cinema in the 1920s and 1930s, through the
translation and publication of newspaper/journal articles and other
documents, in the collection The Film Factory.4 Taylor later co-edited a
very important contribution to understanding the cinema of the Stalin
era and its legacy, Stalinism and Soviet Cinema, featuring a range of articles
from scholars of different disciplinary backgrounds, including
academics from the former Soviet Union. The collection dealt with
2 SOVIET CINEMA

the origins, development and legacy of Stalinism in cinema and offered

contributions from both the ‘totalitarian’ and ‘revisionist’ schools of
thought.5 Denise Youngblood has also challenged received historical
ideas about cinema, but from the broader perspective of revisionist
Soviet history. In her Soviet Cinema in the Silent Era, Youngblood argued
that Stalinism constituted a revolution from below in cinema, but later
amended this theory, arguing that there was no mass support for the
changes. Instead a ‘revolution from the middle’ was said to have taken
place within the film industry itself.6
The approaches of Western revisionists stood in stark contrast to the
work of their Soviet counterparts. In the USSR academics, at least
formally, saw the Party as the careful guiding hand for the film industry,
ensuring that it moved in the correct political direction. For example,
Alentina Rubailo examined the process of growing Party control during
1928–37, contending that the Bolsheviks gradually increased their
influence in terms of administration, planning and the ideological side
of film production. Given that the book was written in the Brezhnev era,
it is unsurprising that the author presented a wholly positive account of
Party influence and the politicisation of the film industry. Since the collapse
of the Soviet system, study of the 1930s has ironically adopted the
traditional, ‘totalitarian’ arguments of the West, concentrating on the
supposedly overwhelming influence of Stalin, comparing Soviet films of
the 1930s with those of Nazi Germany, and focusing on the negative
aspects of the cinema industry. Nonetheless, Russian scholars have recently
published a wealth of archival materials which promise the emergence
of more nuanced accounts of the interaction between politics and cinema
in the 1930s.7
Interest in the 1930s has grown and moved in new directions over
recent years. The French scholar Natacha Laurent has dedicated an entire
book, based on archival sources, to censorship during the Stalinist era
(although the particular focus is on the 1940s). Laurent pays special
attention to aspects of the decision-making process, providing us with a
better understanding of the mechanics of censorship. Among other
arguments, she points out that censorship was not only imposed from
above, but also involved the film-makers themselves who formed part of
a complex web.8 Eberhard Nembach provides a useful narrative on the
reorganisation of the film industry in the 1930s which favours the bridging
of historical divides and provides some new factual information also based
on archival research.9 Other recent work has tackled new areas, such as
 INTRODUCTION 3

gender and masculinity and the importance of time and space in the
films of this era. Yevgeni Dobrenko has devoted a book to the exploration
of how Stalinist cinema produced history (as opposed to this work which
looks at the history of the film industry itself) with film playing the role of
a museum that artificially manipulated the past to legitimise the Soviet
present. This new work has emerged in a context of increasing interest in
the broad domain of Russian and Soviet cinema from academics working
in a whole range of disciplinary areas. Such interest is exemplified by the
creation of a new journal, Studies in Russian and Soviet Cinema.10
On the one hand, the current work acknowledges the importance
and validity of elements of historical interpretations that lean toward
traditional or ‘totalitarian’ approaches. It will be argued throughout that
centralised and administrative political control had a fundamental impact
on Soviet cinema during the 1930s. Excessive bureaucracy played a large
role in undermining the film industry and minimising the potential impact
of the envisaged ‘cinema for the millions’. Moreover, political violence
had a significant impact on cinema especially during the late 1930s. At
the same time, however, the analysis argues against certain aspects of the
traditional view, especially those that regard Stalin as wielding complete
control over the industry and the suggestion that any creativity was
completely wiped out during this period. This book also endorses aspects
of revisionist accounts. In addition to the fact that cinema was subjected
to extreme centralisation and bureaucracy, the film industry was also
characterised by organisational chaos and inefficiency. But while these
arguments are important to this book, the aim here is to develop a fresh
approach to Soviet cinema in the 1930s. If we want to understand why
Soviet cinema adopted certain political, economic and organisational
forms and why the aims set out for the film industry led to particular
outcomes, we must begin by examining the ways of thinking that
underpinned its development.
This work not only differs methodologically from previous
interpretations of cinema in the 1930s, but it also deals with a broader
political subject matter than has traditionally been the case. Areas that
have received the particular attention of scholars, such as Peter Kenez,
Taylor and Youngblood, include government and Party policy, cinema
administration and administrators, censorship, the relationship between
politics and socialist realism, questions of genre, the role of popular cinema
and close examinations of directors, individual films or groups of films.
This book also deals with some of these matters, but aims to use the
4 SOVIET CINEMA

aforementioned method to gain a new perspective. So, for example, the

analysis agrees, to some extent, with Kenez’s view that censorship had a
profound impact on film production, but the intention here is to establish
why censorship increased in the 1930s and why certain decisions on films
or potential films were made. It is a certain mentality that lies behind the
elaborate control mechanisms and it is essential that we understand these
modes of thought if we are to comprehend what happened to Soviet
cinema in the 1930s.
Certain aspects of cinema have received some attention for the period
covering the 1930s, but not as much as the 1920s. This is particularly
relevant to the economic facets of Soviet cinema.11 I will address this and
try to develop a closer examination of the central role of the industry
and its infrastructure in reaching the people. I will also address the area
of film education and training which has received negligible treatment
despite its fundamental importance.12 Political violence was also of great
significance in determining the future direction of the industry in the late
1930s. Again, this is an area which has been discussed, but requires further
exploration.13 Other areas have been almost completely neglected by film
historians, namely thematic planning, one of the key driving (or hindering)
forces behind Soviet cinema during these years. The establishment of
the first cinema trade union is also important for a better understanding
of how representation of varying interests changed in the 1930s and how
film-makers and other workers interacted with the authorities and the
cinema administration. Although this work seeks to explore new territory,
it is not all encompassing. For instance, the author has decided to focus
mainly on the feature film aspects of Soviet cinema as documentary film-
making in this period deserves more comprehensive treatment than this
book could allow.
If we are to apply the aforementioned method successfully, we must
also understand the way in which the Bolsheviks attempted to justify and
legitimise the basis of their power and see how their defensive ways of
thinking, to a large extent, arose from the application of (an already
demanding) Marxist theory to an impoverished Russia. Particular
Bolshevik attitudes and ways of thinking were crucial in both shaping the
Soviet system and almost every aspect of film industry development from
the late 1920s onwards. The historical methodology of examining the
mentalities of human beings has long-established foundations. It is usually
associated with the French Annales school of historiography who established
the approach through a series of studies which examined the attitudes
 INTRODUCTION 5

and values of various social groups over the long term, but with a particular
interest in medieval themes.14 Moreover, a concern with distinctive
mentalities has also long preoccupied scholars of Russian and Soviet
history. This methodology has proven especially fruitful when examining
the psychological world of individual Bolsheviks, such as Stalin, and has
helped us to understand why they acted in the ways that they did.15 It has
also been applied to collective mentalities manifested during the
Revolutionary events of 1917, as well as in longer-term overviews of
Russian history.16

Bolshevik Defensive Thinking

The attempt here to understand the Bolshevik way of thinking, and its
impact on Soviet cinema in particular, will involve a slightly different
methodological approach than those normally applied to deciphering
attitudes and values in human history. The focus will be on the domain
of politics as opposed to the sphere of social history often examined in
the area of mentalities. The main subjects of this work are Bolshevik
politicians, administrators, film-makers and cinema industry personnel
in general. The aim is to show how the Bolsheviks tried to create a cinema
that would serve their goals rather than to examine the reception of film
among the masses or its role in their everyday lives. Thus the focus will be
on the view of political history and cinema ‘from above’, as well as ‘the
middle’, as Denise Youngblood describes it. The analysis does not seek to
claim that there was only one mode of thought in Soviet society, rather, it
tries to discover how a dominant mindset had such a huge impact on the
film industry and its day-to-day functioning. The Annales historians have
generally argued that attitudes have to be analysed over a long period of
time as changes do not take place instantaneously.17 The argument
presented here does not deny this point, but suggests that the Bolshevik
defensive way of thinking, while having its roots in pre-Revolutionary
attitudes, had its own distinctive Bolshevik stamp.
One of the central methods employed by the Annales school has been
the use of figures and statistics as both a means of revealing changes in
mentalities, as well as proving the scientific credentials of the
historiographical enterprise by suggesting that it has the same claims of
accuracy and objectivity as the social sciences. For example, this might
involve trying to prove the decline of the Spanish Empire in the
seventeenth century by carefully quantifying imports and exports of money
and goods and the balance of trading relations with the New World. The
6 SOVIET CINEMA

analysis adopted here does not use numerical methods as a means to

confirm its argument, but it does adopt the concepts of ‘structure’ and
‘agency’ from the world of political science as a means of trying to establish
how dominant patterns of Bolshevik thinking emerged. This approach is
the first step in the methodology of this work.
Whenever we attempt to understand political, social or economic
developments, either historical or contemporary, we try to establish the
connection between agency (individuals or groups of individuals) and
the structures in which they find themselves. In the twentieth century,
academics working in social sciences and humanities have adopted
differing views over where the emphasis should lie in this debate.
Structuralism emphasises the importance of structure, arguing that
observable political, social or economic events, processes and outcomes
are merely the product of unobservable political, social or economic
structures, of which ‘actors are merely bearers’. An alternative, but equally
simplistic view, can be found in the arguments of intentionalism which
suggest that structures are the outcome of human agents (often, but not
always individual) acting on rational, strategic intentions that are usually
unfettered by any structural constraints. Over the past two decades, there
have been various attempts to overcome the artificial separation of
structure and agency in order to develop more sophisticated explanations
of how humans have interacted with their world. Among the most effective
of these has been critical realism. Critical realism contends that human
agency must always be understood as a close interaction with existing
and pre-constituted structures as these structures either constrain or enable
individual or collective agents by the choices and strategies which they
define. Human agents can, to some extent, transform structures through
intentional acts which might have either intended or unintended
consequences. Moreover, by combining their incomplete knowledge of
existing structures with strategic learning, achieved by observing the
consequences of their actions, agents are able to develop new strategies
for future action.18 If we apply this basic conceptualisation to the historical
agency of the Bolsheviks and the distinctive structures which defined the
courses of action available to them, then we are able to see why their
future approach to the cinema industry (and every other aspect of Soviet
life) revealed less of a flexible strategic learning and more of an almost
unchanging way of thinking. A particular defensiveness evolved which,
to a large extent, reflected the gap between what the Bolsheviks wanted
to achieve and what the structural realities allowed them to achieve.
 INTRODUCTION 7

Before we can establish a proper understanding of the relationship

between Bolshevik measures and Russian structural realities, we must
first look at the origins of their ideas, which can be traced back to Karl
Marx. In order to understand the Bolsheviks’ attempts to frame Russian
reality within the terms of Marx’s thinking we must briefly examine his
fundamental ideas and the efforts to apply them to specifically Russian
circumstances. Despite the debates on the scientific status of Marx’s
theoretical framework, his thought was fundamentally moral. Marx
thought that human beings had the potential to be creative, free
individuals, to realise themselves as fully as possible. Such emancipation
had not been achieved mainly due to scarcity and the inevitable struggle
for resources that were related to primitive levels of material productivity.
The advent of capitalism and its mechanisation of labour showed that
the masses could potentially become free of compulsive labour. Yet this
could only be achieved if humanity could destroy the class system on
which capitalism thrived. For Marx the central characteristics of capitalist
society were class division and class exploitation, reinforced by a state
that enabled the ruling class to maintain the exploitative status quo,
through coercion if necessary. He believed that this intolerable situation
would eventually culminate in a social revolution, leading to the end of
capitalism and the emancipation of humanity.
Following the revolution the proletariat would seize and maintain
political control in a transitional period whereby a socialist society would
gradually replace its capitalist predecessor. The transitional period
consisted of the replacement of ‘bourgeois’ class dictatorship with
proletarian class dictatorship, justified by the fact that the working class
constituted the large majority of the population. The transitional,
proletarian class-controlled, socialist state would oversee the dismantling
of the legal and institutional basis of capitalism, foster the development
of the economic and productive powers of the state and protect the
revolution from political enemies.19 In short, it would lay the basis for the
future communist society. Marx assumed that the working class would be
the agency, not only for the transitional period of social change, but also
for the eventual emancipation of humanity as a whole from capitalism
and its class system. The ultimate goal of communism consisted of a
classless society of individuals freed from exploitation, drudgery and able
to realise their creative capacities in a context free from ‘bourgeois’
institutions. This would largely be made possible by abundance and the
final elimination of scarcity. The Bolsheviks adopted Marx’s basic theory
8 SOVIET CINEMA

as one of the key foundations of Party legitimacy. They claimed that he

had uncovered the objective laws of human development through which
all societies must pass, yet, despite their allegedly inevitable character,
the Bolsheviks argued that such laws had to be partly helped along by
political activism and this was particularly necessary in the Russian context.
It is well known that Marx’s predictions failed to materialise in the
West as he expected. When the Revolution took place in Russia, it was in
a country where capitalism was still in its early stages and the state was
dominated by a huge peasantry engaged in primitive agrarian forms of
production, while a relatively small working class existed in the urban
centres. Indeed, the pre-existing structures within which the Bolsheviks
would attempt to realise Marx’s vision certainly enabled the Bolsheviks
to seize power. They managed, at least for a very brief period, to appeal
to workers and peasants with promises to transform lives, end exploitation
and expropriate land from the wealthy. In this way the Bolsheviks presented
themselves as a saviour to all. Yet, economic backwardness would also
prove to be an enormous constraint in the drive to implement Bolshevik
policies. Lenin, who was acutely aware that Marx’s schema did not
correspond to Russia, adapted to the country’s particular circumstances.
In accordance with his belief that the working class did not have the
knowledge and understanding to lead a social revolution, he argued that
they would have to be led by a so-called vanguard. This vanguard consisted
of the Communist Party, an elite organisation of class-conscious,
professional revolutionaries who would lead the way from capitalism
towards a classless society. However, in Russia the highly productive
material basis to be created by advanced capitalism was absent. As Marx
had contended, this well-developed material base was an essential
prerequisite for a successful transition to a communist society where
scarcity would be eliminated. Thus from the very beginning, the Bolsheviks
were faced with the need to reconcile the gap between the need for a
sophisticated material base and their claim that the new Soviet state had
entered the transitional period referred to by Marx.20 In truth the USSR
began as a dictatorship of communist elites that would have to oversee
full industrialisation and the drive for productive powers, before it could
claim to have even reached the transitional period of socialism.
So from 1917 onwards, the Bolsheviks were presented with a huge
problem and it was essentially a problem of political legitimacy. In the
first place, the revolutionaries claimed to embody an ideology that sought
to free the masses from the inhuman exploitation of capitalism. Yet, with
 INTRODUCTION 9

regard to its pre-existing economic and social structures, Russia was an

undeveloped country and the arduous process of full industrialisation
still lay ahead. The historical record had shown that the transformation
of societies from predominantly agrarian economies into industrial giants
usually involved hard toil, poor living standards and a significant level of
exploitation. It seemed evident that Russia would struggle to avoid such
difficulties and when industrialisation did take place under Stalin, it proved
to be far more brutal than anyone could have imagined. So, from the
very beginning, the Bolshevik claim that Party authority, to some extent,
emanated from the inevitable developmental march of history was shown
to be an unfounded and illegitimate argument. The Party tried to cover
this glaring lack of theoretical legitimacy by still claiming that the USSR
was in a transitional period, which it rather euphemistically described as
‘socialist construction’.
The Bolsheviks also suffered from a further political legitimacy deficit.
Marx had never adequately described the nature of worker control during
the socialist transition period, but the implication was that it would involve
the participation of the working masses in some form. Although Lenin
argued for a vanguard party, he recognised that this must be temporary
and that a truly socialist system had to provide democratic mass participation
if society was to be successfully transformed. Such a view was enunciated
in his State and Revolution (Gosudarstvo i revoliutsiia, 1917) where he supported
mass participation in the administration of socialism and the abolition of
the parliamentary system in favour of the true democracy of the commune.
He believed that such developments would lead to the gradual withering
away of the state. The post-Revolutionary reality was quite different. When
the Bolsheviks were soundly defeated in the constituent assembly elections,
it was clear that they did not have the popular backing they wanted. Their
reaction was the closure of the assembly, the banning of rival parties and
the establishment of repressive police control. From this point on, the masses,
in whose name the Bolsheviks claimed to rule, would have no say in the
running of the Soviet state. This was problematic, as the Bolsheviks’ other
source of legitimacy came from the people and, in particular, the working
class. As soon as it was clear that the Bolsheviks did not have popular support,
they tended to lean on the role of the elite vanguard party and, more
importantly, Marxist-Leninist doctrine, which would always be the ultimate
area of Party legitimacy.
Internal structural constraints were compounded by the regime’s
uneasy relationship with the rest of the world. Marx’s vision of proletarian
10 SOVIET CINEMA

revolution was a worldwide vision and, for a short period, the Bolsheviks
held out some hope that revolutions might break out in other European
countries. When this did not happen the USSR was isolated. Indeed, not
only did the Western powers attempt to prevent the Bolsheviks from
winning the civil war, there was also a reluctance to recognise the
legitimacy of the Soviet Union as a geo-political entity for several years.
Russia traditionally had a difficult relationship with the West. Rulers, such
as Peter the Great and Catherine the Great, had tried to emphasise the
need for European modernisation, while Slavophiles argued about the
unique nature of Russia which they believed should follow its own path.
This historical tension manifested itself in the Bolshevik desire to see
Russia reach and surpass European levels of development. At the same
time, this development would be guided by Marxist ideology, which
became both a way of attacking the capitalism of the West and a way of
showing how Russia was unique. Throughout the existence of the Soviet
state the Bolsheviks constantly believed they had to defend themselves
from what they saw as an immoral, exploitative Western world.
Thus, in terms of the collective agency of the Bolsheviks, once they
had seized power they could not simply proceed towards the
transformation of the pre-existing structures of tsarist Russia. On an even
more fundamental level the Bolsheviks had to prove the legitimacy of
their ideas and their right to hold power. On the one hand, this meant
intellectual self-justification which, as we have seen, was achieved by
emphasising the importance of revolutionary elites and the role of the
vanguard party. However, more importantly their vision had to involve a
significant degree of mass support and participation which, as we have
also seen, was largely absent when the Bolsheviks came to power. Certain
historians of a purely totalitarian persuasion have sometimes over-
emphasised the combination of ideology and terror, implying that the
Bolsheviks treated the masses with contempt and, therefore, had no interest
in whether or not they had their support.21 But such accounts fail to
recognise the importance of the mass of ordinary people for the potential
realisation of Marxist ideals. Coercion was, of course, an option available
to the Bolsheviks and one that was often employed in the 1930s. Yet, pure
coercion can rarely be the sole basis for the effective functioning of a
modern state. The industrialisation of the Soviet Union required mass
cooperation to achieve its extremely ambitious goals. But the Bolsheviks
wanted more than cooperation. They wanted the masses to believe in the
ideals of the classless society of emancipated human beings and to be
 INTRODUCTION 11

part of the transformation towards that society. It was not their intention
to enslave ordinary people.
The Bolsheviks were subject to constraints on various different levels.
As we have seen, on a fundamental level they had to contend with
economic backwardness, which always threatened to undermine their
entire project. But they were also constrained by political and social issues.
In particular, their claim to embody the will of the masses was problematic
given their ideological partiality to the working class. They may have
been able to offer a brief and superficial appeal to the peasantry, but the
Bolsheviks believed in collective ownership, while the peasant was
desperate to maintain a significant degree of private farming.
The Bolsheviks were also constrained and, to some extent, influenced
by the political mentalities and traditions of the past. Generally, autocracy
and coercive government have been regarded as central to Russian history.
While there is a great deal of truth in this, recent research has shown that
there was a long-standing pre-Revolutionary belief in strong government
constrained by religious and national tradition in the interests of the
masses. If the Bolsheviks were too repressive, they might be seen as a
continuation of the worst aspects of tsarism, but if they failed to be ruthless,
they might be perceived as weak utopians. The Bolsheviks ultimately
leaned towards the idea of an extremely powerful and unconstrained
government, which was consistent with their monolithic view that any
power ceded to the opposition, or even the slightest element of pluralism,
would destroy the entire Revolutionary enterprise. Another aspect of the
pre-Revolutionary political mode of thinking was a belief in the centrality
of the state not merely as a mechanism for maintaining public order and
raising taxes, but also for administering justice, acting as a moral arbitrator
in public affairs and playing a substantial role in economic ownership
and regulation. Thus the substantial role of the state was already firmly
rooted before the arrival of the Bolsheviks. Nonetheless, the communist
agenda was very specific in that it sought to use the state’s resources to
gain the support of and mobilise the masses toward a distinctive political
vision, eliminating private property in favour of a state-led form of public
ownership of the means of production, distribution and exchange.22
These factors limited the strategies open to the Bolsheviks. The
demands they faced from millions of peasants and workers meant they
had to be decisive, strong-willed and, most importantly, they had to
produce visible results quickly in order to maintain their hold on power.
Following years of civil war, the revolutionaries sensibly adopted the course
12 SOVIET CINEMA

of compromise through the NEP (New Economic Policy) which allowed

them to consolidate their position and foster economic recovery. However,
the Bolsheviks were never satisfied with compromise. Their revolutionary
model was preoccupied with the need to fit Russia into the Marxist
historical schema and to reach the level of economic and social
development that Marx had seen as a necessary prerequisite for the
socialist transition period. This necessitated rapid economic development
as well as radical policies that would prove the legitimacy of Bolshevik
power. By the end of the 1920s, the decision to embark on holistic
transformation had been made. Certainly, this was partly due to Stalin’s
political manoeuvring, yet it was also fully consistent with the Bolshevik
revolutionary ‘all or nothing’ model and their impatience to enact radical
programmes.
The structural constraints that the Bolsheviks faced both internally
and externally meant that their choices and strategies were always
restricted. Their choice to go down the path of exclusive, elite dictatorship
meant that they would always be on the defensive. Their inability to
reconcile a grandiose ideological outlook with these structural constraints
led to the evolution of a defensive way of thinking, a sense of constantly
being under siege. As well as the constant need for self-justification, the
Bolsheviks knew that the greater mass of the people, including the huge
peasantry, were not with them. This became more obvious during the
grain requisitioning onslaught after the Revolution and the later
industrialisation and collectivisation programmes. In addition to the
realisation that the majority of the people were not sympathetic to the
regime, the revolutionaries genuinely believed that there were traitors,
enemies, spies and saboteurs throughout society intent on destroying the
communist dream. This was accompanied by the fear that the capitalist
countries were also attempting to undermine the Soviet system by any
means necessary. When a regime believes that it is under siege it takes
defensive measures not unlike those adopted during a war. Thus the
strategy of holistic transformation was guided and shaped by the
revolutionaries’ defensive outlook. However, the reaction of defending
or closing up, especially when radical measures had unintended
consequences, meant that the Bolsheviks tended not to learn from their
mistakes. Their strong belief in a rigid revolutionary model meant, as we
shall see, that the Soviet government and cinema administration continued
to implement failing policies to the cinema industry, fearing that openness
to new ideas might be seen as an acknowledgement of political failure.
 INTRODUCTION 13

Implications for Cinema

How does what we have said relate to our central concern, Soviet cinema?
In order to answer this question we must examine the formal, intended
functions of cinema in Soviet society. Cinema presented the Bolsheviks
with a potentially powerful weapon, as it was not only an exciting new
technology; it was also accessible and appealing to the masses as an art
form that they could engage in. From the communist perspective, cinema
could serve many crucial functions. First of all, it could play its role in the
struggle to circumvent the problems implied by illiteracy. Yet, this was
not merely a practical application. The liquidation of illiteracy would be
done within the terms of reference and ideas of communist ideology.
Therefore, cinema would politically educate the masses so that they would
develop a conscious understanding of the Revolution, the new socialist
reality and their part in that reality. At its most ambitious, such an
education would contribute to the creation of a ‘New Soviet Man’, a
highly moral, socialist paragon of virtue, dedicated to the final goal of
communism. However, the most fundamental task of cinema was never
publicly spelled out. As we have argued, the Bolsheviks’ defensive way of
thinking was central to their outlook and this had both an impact on
their idea of cinema’s purpose and how it should be organised. The cinema
industry became both part of the quest for legitimacy and part of the
frontline of political and ideological defence. It had to legitimise and
protect communist ideology, power and, most importantly, the reality that
they had given rise to. The communists could not properly explain why
their hold on power did not correspond to the supposedly scientific Marxist
theoretical framework to a sceptical intelligentsia, although the average
Soviet citizen was almost certainly not interested in such issues.
Nonetheless, ordinary people were concerned with the everyday reality
that sprang from Bolshevik thinking. The communists had to reconcile
their rhetoric of human emancipation with the grim Soviet reality of
breakneck industrialisation and the hardship and low living standards
that came with such a transformation. Party leaders also knew that
achieving mass cooperation was essential for the realisation of their goals.
So they had to convince the masses of the necessity of their effective
participation in socialist construction, by claiming that they were working
towards a communist paradise. Thus cinema was to play a fundamental
role, not only in politically educating and moulding the new man, but
also in showing ordinary people that their feats and sacrifices were in
their own interests and the interests of society as a whole. Cinema would
14 SOVIET CINEMA

play a crucial role in helping to keep the masses on side while they made
good the modernisation gap required to give them the better life that
they yearned for and to provide an interim legitimacy for the Bolsheviks.
Indeed, film’s political function went beyond political education,
mobilisation and persuasion. As we shall see in the final chapter, film
would also play a key role in sharing the Bolsheviks’ burden of political
responsibility with ordinary citizens.
The Bolshevik defensive way of thinking that emerged was shaped by
a range of past and present structures but, most of all, by the irreconcilable
gap between their political aims and the pre-existing structures within
which they had to operate. This defensiveness sought to protect the
communist ideal and Soviet power from being exposed as fraudulent. It
guided policy and administration, which rested on the uneasy foundations
of profound political insecurity and illegitimacy, and was a disaster for
Soviet cinema, bringing it to the brink of productive and creative collapse.
As we shall observe, this defensiveness manifested itself in many different
ways on both an institutional and an individual level. Ultimately, its main
effect was to undermine the very industry that had been intended to serve
as a frontline in the ideological defence of the Bolshevik regime.
 15

CHAPTER 1

FILM ADMINISTRATION AND

INDUSTRY DEVELOPMENT

T
his chapter will examine the role of government, Party and
administrative decision-making and the development of Soviet
cinema’s industry and infrastructure. The 1930s saw a gradual
shift from a preoccupation with the macromanagement of the broader
industry, to organising cinema on centralised principles and imposing
ideological control over the production process. This shift was particularly
evident in official government and Party decision-making, as well as
industry administration. At this time the administration came under
increasing pressure not only to create an industry that reached the masses
and was economically successful, but also ideologically sound. However,
the impact of defensiveness had unintended negative consequences. Boris
Shumiatsky, the cinema chairman, reacted to increasing centralisation
and his own decreasing autonomy by devising an individual defensive
strategy to protect his position of power. This involved an attempt to prove
his credentials as an ideal Bolshevik leader of Soviet cinema, in the course
of which Shumiatsky became obsessed with micromanaging the industry.
His everyday activities shifted from a concern with broader industry
development to checking every film script before production, controlling
individuals’ movements and writing letters to Stalin and Molotov, pleading
for funds or approval of some sort. This made a huge contribution to stunting
the growth and success of Soviet cinema. In this way, Bolshevik defensiveness
had an effect on the day-to-day operation of the system, as well as its output.
Paradoxically, the desire to defend and protect thus provided the source of
the system’s paralysis as well as its chaotic aspects. It helped create elaborate
structures of control while simultaneously undermining these principles of
organisation by taking them to absurd levels.
16 SOVIET CINEMA

By the end of the 1920s, the Soviet film industry was under attack
from government and Party representatives as well as journalists. The
cinema administration, initially under the name Sovkino, was accused of
pursuing an overtly commercial line with too much emphasis on films of
a Hollywood type that did not address the vital political issues of the time
and were clearly intended for profitable export. Sovkino was also criticised
for spending vast sums of hard currency on the import of popular Western
product in the interest of profiteering. In essence, it was considered that
Sovkino showed far more concern for ‘trivial’, ‘bourgeois’ films than the
more ideologically sound products. Yet, ideological reasons were not
considered to be Sovkino’s only shortcomings. It was accused of failing
to develop the industry itself with too few films being produced and not
enough adequate theatres to show these films.1 The criticism culminated
in the first All-Union Party Conference on Cinema which was held on
15–21 March 1928 under the auspices of the Party’s Central Committee.
This was an important turning point as it marked the beginning of the
gradual shift towards centralised administration, which would eventually
have a detrimental effect on Soviet cinema.
The conference was an attempt to bring political order to Soviet
cinema and direct it along a secure ideological path. A series of key
resolutions were made at the event. Acknowledging the public’s love of
action, adventure and comedy, which they had become accustomed to
through popular Soviet films and imported American and European films,
it was stressed that movies should provide communist enlightenment, but
in a form ‘intelligible to the millions’. This meant that cinema had to
convey the political message, but in an entertaining manner that would
engage the mass audience.2 The conference also noted what it regarded
as the political unreliability of those who ran the cinema industry, calling
for more workers and peasants with Marxist sympathies from the spheres
of literature, theatre and journalism to take control. Among the other
important resolutions was recognition of the importance of creating an
expanded cinema industry to reach the masses and a domestic
infrastructure, thus freeing itself from dependency on the foreign market
in areas such as film stock and almost all forms of cinema equipment and
hardware.3
The fact that the Party conference was to help shape the elaborate
legislative framework of subsequent years became immediately evident.
On 11 January 1929, a Central Committee decree was promulgated,
reflecting the aims of the conference resolution that referred to cadres.
 FILM ADMINISTRATION AND INDUSTRY DEVELOPMENT 17

The decree entitled: ‘On the Strengthening of Cinema Cadres’, was

intended to ‘proletarianise’ the personnel throughout the Soviet cinema
industry on every level. The decree proposed that Party, professional,
Komsomol and civic/scientific organisations foster the development of
new cadres and discuss cinema enterprise production plans. Writers of
working-class or peasant origins were to be drawn into the work of studios
on a permanent basis. The predominantly proletarian and peasant
personnel elements in cinema were to be guaranteed by giving these groups
a seventy-five per cent quota in the cinema schools. 4 The decree
represented the first of many legislative building blocks in the ambitious
effort to create a centralised system of complete control over the cinema
industry. The part that this piece of legislation was intended to play in
the overall framework was the elimination of the old, ideologically
unreliable ‘bourgeois’ personnel in favour of the new and younger
generation. In essence, the decree sought to ensure that the views of the
political leadership and the creative workers of cinema coincided. The
Party made the sweeping assumption that those of a working-class
background would both agree with the communist outlook and, therefore,
were best suited to producing ideologically sound films.
Indeed, the impact of this decree in subsequent years brought limited
results for the leadership. While the numbers of workers and peasants
entering into all areas of the cinema industry undoubtedly rose, the process
of giving individuals from these backgrounds positions of control was
extremely slow. A year and two months after the decree it was noted,
during the purges of Mezhrabpomfilm, that of the two hundred and
twenty-six personnel working at the studio, only sixteen to twenty could
be considered to be of worker or peasant origin.5 Moreover, this minority
carried out tasks, such as joinery, which was important for film production,
but had little influence on the running of the studio’s artistic and
administrative affairs. By the end of 1930, even after the height of purges
in cinema had passed, it was clear that administrative personnel of
working-class and peasant origins were struggling to break through into
leading positions of authority. This led to further calls for the working
class to take control of cinema production.6 However, most key positions
were still held by older specialists from what was regarded as a less desirable
social background. As we shall see later, it would only be during the late
thirties when those of a working-class or peasant background would
occupy many more positions of power. One of the central reasons for the
slow rise of worker and peasant personnel was their lack of experience
18 SOVIET CINEMA

and training in administrative and artistic matters. Indeed, the failure to

fully purge the cinema of the old bureaucrats, typically of a middle/
lower middle-class or an intelligentsia social background, was due, to a
large extent, to the need for their experience and expertise at a time when
these were desperately required.
The Soviet government issued several decrees over 1929–30. The first
of these established the short-lived Cinema Committee which was entrusted
with the task of planning for the future development of a centralised cinema
industry. Yet its proposals for reorganisation were passed on to a special
Central Committee commission to be finished off. On 10 July 1929, a
decree was passed ‘On Tax Relief for the Cinema Industry’, proposing the
freeing-up of the sphere of cinema equipment production from business
tax, as well as general state and local tax breaks for cinema theatres affiliated
to institutions, industrial enterprises, military units, educational
establishments and so on. In reality though, this was a meagre concession.
The domestic cinema equipment sector was still relatively small at this
stage and, therefore, any taxes gained by the state would have been fairly
modest. Moreover, the lifting of taxes from cinemas affiliated to various
institutions and the mobile installations was certainly a positive move, but
offered no relief to the urban theatres, which made the real taxable money
that could have benefited the industry. Indeed, tax on cinema tickets would
consistently rise during the 1930s at a time when the industry desperately
needed all the finances it could hold on to.7
Later that year further decrees were issued concerning the
establishment of cinefication funds intended to finance the expansion of
the cinema network although, again, this involved more talk than action.
This was followed by a further decree, promulgated on 7 December 1929,
instructing cinema enterprises to create special departments devoted to
the production of politico-educational films. A substantial thirty per cent
of each studio’s budget was to be allocated to the production of these
films and the union commissariats were expected to devote resources to
politico-educational work in the sphere of cinema. However, the most
important decrees issued at the turn of the decade were those that shaped
the structure and administration of the cinema industry. On 13 February
1930, the Soviet government issued a decree entitled ‘On the Development
of an All-Union Cinema Industry Combine’. The rather brief document
pointed out that the new organisation, named Soiuzkino, should concentrate
on ‘all matters concerning the production of cinema equipment’, as well
as ‘all matters of film production, rental and general use’.8
 FILM ADMINISTRATION AND INDUSTRY DEVELOPMENT 19

A charter was drawn up for the new cinema administrative body

Soiuzkino to provide further clarification on the purpose of the new
organisation. The charter indicated that Soiuzkino would be responsible
for the broad leadership, planning and regulation of the cinema industry.
The charter also suggested that full centralisation had not yet arrived. It
specifically stated that, while Soiuzkino would have ideological leadership
of film production, in the republics, the regional Narkompros (People’s
Commissariat of Enlightenment) agencies would be responsible for such
leadership. Moreover, while the advent of Soiuzkino signalled the end
for almost all of those studios which did not constitute part of the state
film industry, the charter notably allowed the Mezhrabpomfilm studio to
retain almost complete independence due to the fact that it was owned,
to some extent, by foreign capital. Soiuzkino only had the powers to check
and approve its production plans. It is very likely that as the foreign
investors were from International Workers’ Aid, who supported the
communist cause, this studio was tolerated for a few more years. The
prolonged existence of the Mezhrabpomfilm studio meant that
competition for the now government-led cinema industry had not been
completely extinguished.9
A brief glance at the decrees on cinema issued at the turn of the decade
reveals a striking emphasis on the macromanagement of the economic
and administrative aspects of the cinema industry rather than the
predominance of ideological concerns that one might expect, given the
fact that the cultural revolution was now in full swing. The aforementioned
decrees point to a central concern with the economic development of
cinema, focusing on ways of speeding up the process through tax relief
and establishing cinema funds for the expansion and growth of the industry.
Even the decree, which called for the establishment of what was to become
Soiuzkino, quite clearly suggests that the main role of the new body was to
oversee the construction of new studios, cinema equipment manufacture
and the general economic development of the cinema industry. On the
other hand, the decrees on cadres and politico-educational films certainly
indicate that ideological questions were also of the utmost importance in
this period. It is also important to note that certain non-legislative means
of influence were getting more rigid, such as censorship, thematic planning,
as well as ideological indoctrination through the cinema education system.
Yet the broad emphasis on economic matters in cinema decrees reflected
the modernisation drive to close the development gap which, as we have
observed, was so important to the Bolsheviks.
20 SOVIET CINEMA

Boris Shumiatsky
Government and Party decrees were crucial in developing the basic
structure of the industry, but the most important individual was the head
of that industry. The first chairman of Soiuzkino was Martemian Riutin,
who had carried out Party work in Irkutsk, Dagestan and Moscow in the
1920s, before becoming a member of the VSNKh (Supreme Council of
the National Economy in the USSR) Presidium in 1930. He was an
apparently reliable Party figure, advocating strict planning, socialist
production techniques, administrative intervention where necessary, as
well as rigid censorship. On the other hand, Riutin also argued that the
cinema organisations under Soiuzkino’s control must be given at least
some independence and ought to show initiative. He even took the
concerns of the republics into account, persuading the Politburo to halt
temporarily the moves towards full centralisation. Ultimately, the main
reason for Riutin’s brief spell as chairman of Soiuzkino was connected
to his conflicting political relations with Stalin, which would eventually
lead to his arrest. On October 23 1930, the VSNKh ordered Riutin’s
dismissal.10
In the meantime, Konstantin Shvedchikov, who had been criticised
for his commercialism as chairman in the late 1920s, took temporary
charge of Soiuzkino until the VSNKh declared Boris Shumiatsky as the
new chairman one month later on 23 November 1930.11 Shumiatsky
would prove to be the most important leader of the cinema industry
throughout the 1930s, at least until his arrest in 1938. In his first few
years of control, Shumiatsky and his board were preoccupied with the
transition to sound and the construction from scratch of a cinema industry
capable of producing its own raw film stock, cameras, projectors, sound
recording machines, lighting and so on. Consequently, Soiuzkino decrees
were predominantly concerned with approving economic plans or
demanding additions or amendments to those plans. There were endless
orders on producing or acquiring sound equipment along with all the
other necessary components for film-making and on securing the qualified
personnel who could operate the new devices.12 Shumiatsky was very
conscious of the need for the Soviet industry to become independent
from foreign products and during his first few years he repeated much of
the general political rhetoric on how the end of this dependence was in
sight. Thus Shumiatsky gave strong support to ‘mass inventiveness’ such
as a certain Kosmatov’s idea of reusable film stock.13 Directives were
issued supporting such inventiveness, demanding an end to the sabotage
 FILM ADMINISTRATION AND INDUSTRY DEVELOPMENT 21

allegedly preventing such ideas from reaching fruition. Many of

Soiuzkino’s directives revealed a central concern with the frequent lack
of discipline in the workplace or general slovenliness and irresponsibility
among certain personnel. This had implications for efficiency and
productivity so Shumiatsky passed an order, which would mean wage
deductions or sackings for those who did not fall into line.14
It is important to point out that ideological matters were not completely
absent from Shumiatsky’s agenda in the early to mid-1930s. For instance,
he issued orders demanding improvements to film quality by ending the
production of films that were reflective of an ‘ideology alien to the
proletariat’. He also ordered the introduction of questionnaires for new
personnel in every sector of the cinema industry. This reflected his concern
to attract those from ideologically reliable backgrounds.15 Yet, on the
whole, Shumiatsky’s ideological measures were fairly low key during his
first few years in charge of cinema. His concern with broader industry
development was illustrated in a draft plan written by Shumiatsky in 1931,
under the heading, ‘The Big Programme of Soiuzkino for 1932’.
Shumiatsky began with the now familiar condemnations of Soviet cinema
to date. That is the lack of film productivity, caused by the same old
‘illnesses’ of Soviet cinema production, namely far too many ideologically
unsound films, as well as the lack of scripts and cadres. Shumiatsky also
complained of the lack of an industrial base for the production of film
stock and filming equipment, as well as the poor financial position of
Soviet cinema in terms of its debts and tax obligations, but also with
regard to investment in capital construction. Furthermore, Shumiatsky
pointed out that completed films were not being exploited properly and
cinefication was characterised by the backwardness of the rural and school
cinema network.16
In response to these problems, Shumiatsky proposed a comprehensive
programme of development and reconstruction for Soviet cinema. First
of all, Shumiatsky aspired to the creation of 500 full-length films, including
more than 100 silent movies compared to the output of 200 films in
1931. He looked to a figure of 3 billion cinema visits in 1932 compared
with 700 million in 1930 and 1 billion in 1931, as well as a 1 billion
rouble turnover compared to 400 million in 1931 and 300 million in
1930. From these rather optimistic figures, Shumiatsky deduced that the
state would be able to deduct taxes and duties of between 200 and 220
million roubles, as opposed to 100 million in 1931 and 20 million in
1930. He wanted to see a clear profit for Soviet cinema of between 200–
22 SOVIET CINEMA

220 million roubles instead of the zero profit of 1930 and the 17 million
roubles made in 1931. As well as a dramatic increase in financial growth,
Shumiatsky aspired to massive industrial projects, including the building
of a gigantic film stock factory, three new studios in Central Asia,
Belorussia and Eastern Siberia, 100 new cinema theatres in new areas
and kolkhoz centres, 8,500 sound cinema installations and 50,000 new
mobile installations. Shumiatsky’s plan was extremely ambitious. While
it was intended to be a programme for 1932, in terms of the figures
suggested, it would really prove to be a programme for the entire decade.17

Sound
In 1929–30 the central issue of the time for Soviet cinema was the
transition to sound. Such a transition, of course, had huge political
significance. In the 1930s, illiteracy was still a significant issue and, while
film certainly played its role in eliminating this problem, sound cinema
provided the ideal means of reaching the masses in a more effective way.
Sound also constituted a technical and economic shift. The director,
cameraman, scriptwriter and journalist, Nikolai Anoshchenko, recognised
that the rhetoric of the political leadership on ‘catching and overhauling
the West’ could, ironically, not be realised without the technical help of
the West. Other journalists, such as Ippolit Sokolov, believed that the
Soviet sound devices invented by Pavel Tager and Alexander Shorin were
both important and not inferior to their American rivals. 18 But
Anoshchenko argued in March 1930 that, despite Tager and Shorin’s
impressive efforts, sound cinema in the USSR was still at an ‘elementary
stage of development’. In effect, the materials that Tager and Shorin
were working with to develop their ideas were not sophisticated enough
and so the quality of their first experimental films was fairly low.
Anoshchenko realistically contended that, if Soviet cinema wanted to
make a quick and effective transition to sound cinema for the benefit of
quality, propaganda and the overseas trade of Soviet films, then the
cinema administration simply had to rely on American help and
technical advice.19
Regardless of the official government line on independent Soviet
economic development, the government and the cinema administration
succumbed to the practical need for technical assistance. On 25 June
1930, Soiuzkino established an agreement with a New York company
called Audio-Cinema to ‘give Soiuzkino technical help in the planning,
design and installation of equipment for sound studios and theatres,
 FILM ADMINISTRATION AND INDUSTRY DEVELOPMENT 23

applying the most up-to-date methods of the cinema industry’.20 The

American specialist, Joey Koffman, arrived in the Soviet Union in the
autumn of 1930, bringing with him all the latest equipment to satisfy
Soiuzkino’s requirements, including microphones and modulators. His
ten-thousand-dollar payment also entailed advising Soiuzkino specialists
how to operate and develop the sound system. Soiuzkino’s reaction to
Koffman’s visit was frank. In a letter from Soiuzkino to the VSNKh it
was stated that, with the availability of the American equipment, it was
now possible to order the laboratories of Leningrad and Moscow (where
Tager and Shorin were based respectively) to ‘copy immediately these
samples significantly improving the construction of our sound recording
and sound producing apparatuses’.21 In addition to Koffman’s visit, Soviet
representatives including Ippolit Sokolov, Sergei Eisenstein, Grigori
Alexandrov and Eduard Tisse went abroad to observe how cinema
industries operated and produced in Europe and America and reported
back in detail on their return.22 Nonetheless, despite these exchanges,
lack of funds meant that sound device manufacture was very slow and
sound cinema took many years to develop in the USSR.

Cinefication
The development of sound in Soviet cinema was closely associated with
the development of ‘Kinofikatsiia’ (cinefication) in the country at large.
In essence, this referred to the expansion of the cinema network and the
availability of viewing facilities in both the urban and rural environments.
Even if the production of sound films had been more substantial, the
chances of being able to see them were fairly slim for the majority of the
population. By June 1931, the Soviet enterprises concerned had only
managed to produce one sound projector, which was set up in a theatre
that month.23 The situation remained difficult throughout the 1930s. By
the end of the first Five Year Plan in 1933, there were now 27,578 cinema
installations, but only 224 had sound projectors. In 1938 there were still
only 28,574 cinema installations overall. It seems that many of the silent
projectors had been decommissioned as the proportion of sound projectors
included in this figure had now reached 11,242. It was only by the end of
1938 that the quantity of sound projectors within the overall network
reached the 54 per cent mark.24 Overall then, despite the dramatic increase
between the mid-1920s and the beginning of the new decade, the growth
of cinema outlets was fairly meagre in the 1930s, largely due to the slow
transition to sound. It made no sense to produce more silent projectors,
24 SOVIET CINEMA

yet the technological base was not developed enough to enable the mass
production of sound projectors. We can gain a strong idea of just how
poorly the cinema network was serving the population from the proposals
of the third Five Year Plan declared in 1939. In order to provide adequate
cinema facilities throughout the USSR, Viacheslav Molotov announced
that the network of sound-producing stationary and mobile projectors
would have to be increased by six times.25
The cinefication programme undoubtedly favoured the urban and
European part of the Soviet Union. Throughout the 1930s, the major
towns and cities of the USSR consistently had over one third of the
viewing facilities of the entire Union. Despite Shumiatsky’s wish to create
a network over a five year period that would give cinema access to the
majority of the peasant population, this did not materialise. Moreover,
the quality of cinefication in the urban environment was far superior to
that of the country.26 For example, the Udarnik cinema in Moscow could
boast a one thousand seat capacity and a grand foyer where waiting
patrons could listen to an orchestra, dance, play chess or read. This cinema,
as with most urban equivalents, also had a buffet area where customers
could have something to drink, such as a cup of tea on a cold night, or
some sandwiches, smoked herring, caviar or a pastry. In addition, the
viewing experience was better than in rural cinemas as film goers could
often see newly issued film prints sometimes shown in cinemas equipped
with sound.27
In contrast, films in the countryside were usually shown with silent
projectors which were often aged and subject to constant technical
problems, leading to persistent film stoppages. Due to the frequently poor
state of the film copies, projectionists sometimes had to piece film together
with fragments of different films, causing either confusion or amusement
among the peasants. Throughout the mid-1930s, films in the country
were still being shown in small rooms of about five-six square metres in
kolkhoz administrative offices, which were crammed to capacity and
generally did not even have seats. Such places were often dirty, dark, cold
and sometimes had leaking roofs. Moreover, the projectionist, who was
expected to deliver and set up the mobile cinema on site as well as prepare
the premises and advertise the showing, sometimes did not turn up. At
least certain rural areas had some form of cinema provision, in remote
regions of the RSFSR (Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic) and
republics, such as Tadzhikistan, Turkmenia and Kirgizia, cinema was a
rare event.28
 FILM ADMINISTRATION AND INDUSTRY DEVELOPMENT 25

A cartoon sketch of a couple leaving an outdoor cinema in the countryside (1935).

Shumiatsky’s administration was so preoccupied with broader industry

development that it tended to neglect matters of distribution and
exhibition. This may have been partly due to the fact that the agencies
that controlled these areas were answerable to Shumiatsky, but had a fair
degree of autonomy. In Moscow, up until 1934, cinemas were still
dominated by foreign product much of which had been imported in the
26 SOVIET CINEMA

late 1920s. In the summer of 1933, one critic demanded to know why
Moscow’s theatres could only show dated foreign films, including comedies
featuring Harold Lloyd and Monty Banks, escapist westerns or German
thrillers that had been seen time and time again with the exception of
the occasional new import.29 Although by 1934 the import of new foreign
films was reduced to a few on a yearly basis, it did not completely stop.
Events, such as the first international film festival in Moscow in 1935,
brought the Walt Disney cartoons Three Little Pigs (1933), Peculiar Penguins
(1934) and The Band Concert (1935) among other feature films. Even many
of the Soviet films shown in the early to mid-1930s were the hits of the
1920s, such as The Bear’s Wedding (Medvezhia svadba, 1926) or Miss Mend
(1926) rather than the politicised classics. It was clear by the way that
films were being advertised that urban film exhibition still had an
essentially commercial face.
Lower down the distribution ladder the situation was equally
problematic. The difficulty in both workers’ clubs and rural areas was
not an excess of foreign films, but rather the lack of films generally. In
1936 one commentator claimed that eighty per cent of the installations
were showing dated films which, in many cases, were in a condition not
worthy of public exhibition. The typical sort of film shown would again
be Soviet product from the late 1920s, such as Grigori Roshal’s The
Salamander (Salamandra, 1928), a film about the biologist Paul Kammerer,
which was unpopular on its original release, or Amo Bek-Nazarian’s Khaz
Push (1928), a film about a revolt of Persian peasants and craftsmen in
1891. Older foreign films were also shown in the countryside, such as
Duke Worne’s Blue Fox (1921), an American adventure movie. The obvious
concern for Party officials was not only that the more prestigious urban
theatres and, to a lesser extent, the workers’ clubs and kolkhoz buildings,
were still showing many dated foreign films, as well as old domestic
product, but that most new Soviet films were hardly being shown at all
throughout the USSR. Soviet citizens, especially in the smaller towns
and countryside, could only be offered the same films from the 1920s
over and over again. It was clear to all that the new ‘cinema for the millions’
was not reaching the millions.30
The crux of the problem was the lack of prints available for new
Soviet films. In the mid-1930s, it usually took two to three years before
the areas with cinema provision had seen the majority of new Soviet
films due to the low productivity of the newly established copy factories,
and this was compounded by the slowness of production. There simply
 FILM ADMINISTRATION AND INDUSTRY DEVELOPMENT 27

A caricature of foreign film stars sitting on top of one another. From Vecherniaia
Moskva, 26 July 1933.
28 SOVIET CINEMA

were not enough copies to distribute. At the beginning of 1934, there

was an average of 39 copies per film for the entire USSR. Over the next
few years, this figure slowly increased and prints for sound projectors also
began to emerge. By the end of the decade, this had risen to around 250–
300 sound and silent copies per film, which was still less than sufficient. It
is useful to draw a comparison with America in this case. In 1940 the
USA had fewer than 20,000 cinemas compared to just over 29,000 viewing
facilities in the USSR. The average number of prints for major American
films at this time was 250, similar to the Soviet figure. However, the
fundamental difference was that America produced 673 movies in 1940
compared to the USSR’s 40 films. So, in addition to the fact that US
theatres were well provided with film prints, they also had a high level of
choice.31
In contrast, the Soviet industry which, in theory at least, believed
that every Soviet citizen should see its major films, failed to produce
and distribute enough films and copies for the necessary communication
of the communist message. There were some exceptions to this rule,
such as Sergei Eisenstein’s Alexander Nevsky (1938) and Fridrikh Ermler’s
Peasants (Krestiane, 1935), which were both eventually released in 900
copies. A few more, including part two of Ermler’s The Great Citizen
(Velikii grazhdanin, 1937–9) were released in between approximately 500–
600 copies. But, even for this minority of films, such figures were still
less than sufficient, especially when we take into account the low output
of film production and the rapid decline of the copies. On the whole,
the distribution of most films, including ideologically important
propaganda movies such as Lenin in 1918 (Lenin v 1918, 1939), was
meagre. In 1939 one observer noted that Tula, one of the better-served
regions of the Soviet Union, which had 79 installations, had been
presented with only 5 copies of the film. Moreover, although the sound
network would increase sharply over the next two years, at this point
nearly half of the network still consisted of silent projectors. Despite
this, no silent copies of Lenin in 1918 were produced and this applied
to other films, such as Shchors (1939) and T he Tractor Drivers
(Traktoristy, 1939).32
A great deal of the blame for what was being shown on the screens
throughout the USSR in the early to mid-1930s was placed on the
shoulders of the film distribution agencies. Rossnabfilm and its Union
representatives remained fairly autonomous until 1938, which meant that
a policy of profit making with the films that were available still prevailed
 FILM ADMINISTRATION AND INDUSTRY DEVELOPMENT 29

over planned, ideologically orientated distribution throughout the decade.

Although distribution did not fall directly under Shumiatsky’s jurisdiction,
he and his successors gave their full support to the idea of planned
repertoires, thus helping to level the imbalances favouring urban centres,
as well as ending commercialism and competition between theatres. In
1938 distribution was centralised under Semyon Dukelsky, formally giving
the new Cinema Committee more control over what was being shown
on Soviet screens. However, by the end of the decade, Soiuzkinoprokat,
the division of the Cinema Committee now responsible for distribution,
was failing to distribute films evenly. Instead of planning, the old
commercial system of dividing cinemas up into first, second and third
screens remained in place, suggesting that the administrators of
Soiuzkinoprokat were not prepared to distribute some new film prints to
the less profitable regions and villages first in the interests of ideology.33
Theatre managers in Moscow regarded the new system of planned
repertoires as chaotic. They complained that Soiuzkinoprokat often did
not provide them with details of film content and duration, which meant
that planning timetables and selling tickets in advance was impossible.
Managers also complained that Soiuzkinoprokat frequently promised
individual theatres specific films. In response to this, the theatres would
arrange advertisements and sell a large quantity of advance tickets only
to learn that they would not receive the film after all.34 These complaints
suggest that the very opposite of planning was taking place in the area of
film distribution.
Some argued that the theatres themselves should also be under a
consistent, centralised control structure. When the autonomous
Cinefication Administration was established in 1933, the theatres that
had formerly fallen under Sovkino and Soiuzkino control were placed in
its hands, while equivalent administrations were established in the
republics. Yet, although private ownership had by now been officially
liquidated, urban theatres were controlled by a variety of organisations
that still competed with each other for the biggest profits. Moscow provides
an interesting example. Those cinema outlets, which did not constitute
part of the Cinefication Administration trust system, were under the
control of Moscow City Council, the autonomous Mezhrabpom, which
controlled several top theatres in the capital, and other organisations,
such as Vostokfilm, which also owned a theatre in Moscow. These different
outlets were all in competition with one another to maximise profits.
Gradually, ownership was narrowed down. In 1936 Mezhrabpom was
30 SOVIET CINEMA

liquidated, as was Vostokino. In 1938 the Cinefication Administration

was also liquidated, handing over the control of many cinemas to the
centralised Cinema Committee. In Moscow the majority of theatres were
now under the control of the city council’s cinema trust (Mosgorkino). In
effect, the competition had been significantly reduced. Nonetheless, even
in Moscow there was a clear divide between the quality of theatres located
in the centre of the city and those further outside the main metropolis.
Managers of the top theatres knew that they would be most likely to
receive the best films and the newest prints. Consequently, they could
charge as much as four roubles a ticket in comparison to the lesser theatres,
which usually charged less than two roubles a ticket. In contrast, tickets
for the most basic rural cinema installation cost as little as fifty kopecks.
Ultimately, the desire to eliminate competition and introduce an
ideologically sound, planned, equal system of film access was
compromised by a distribution and theatre system that was stratified and
inevitably succumbed to the practical necessity of making money for the
state.
Shumiatsky’s task of overseeing the establishment of an industry and
infrastructure was a particularly big challenge. The production of Soviet
film stock was considered to be a matter of urgent priority as the USSR
had become accustomed to importing it from Western Europe and
America on a large scale and at a high cost for the cinema industry. In
1929 construction began on the USSR’s first film stock factory in Shostka
in the north of Russia and this was soon followed by the building of a
second factory at Pereslavl-Zalessky near Moscow. In the Shostka case a
deal was reached with Lumière to help with the construction and
equipping of the film stock factory, while a company called SIMP (Société
Industrielle des Matières Plastiques) was hired to provide similar support
in Pereslavl-Zalessky. Both of the factories began operating at the end of
1931. However, the Soviet desire to move towards fully independent film
stock production proved to be a slow and difficult process. The official
figures suggest that, in 1930, 46 million metres of foreign film stock were
imported, but in 1933 this figure had dropped to 1 million metres. Between
1932 and 1941, the output of Soviet film stock remarkably soared by
nearly eight fold. Nonetheless, this quantitative increase was not, at least
until the end of the 1930s, accompanied by qualitative improvements.
Film-makers were consistently presented with low-quality Soviet film stock.
Cameramen and directors came to expect ‘new’ film stock that might be
scratched, covered in fingerprints, cut to the wrong size, unevenly
 FILM ADMINISTRATION AND INDUSTRY DEVELOPMENT 31

perforated, or even partly or completely lack the silver compound chemical

emulsion necessary to shoot the images.35 Consequently, despite the
apparent abundance of film stock, a great deal of it was not up to
professional standards.
In practice this meant that there were shortages of good quality Soviet
stock and this was undoubtedly a factor in the low levels of film production.
Although the import of foreign film stock had been curtailed, the evidence
suggests that the cinema administration continued to import it, as well as
chemical emulsion for the Soviet stock from countries such as Germany
and Italy throughout the 1930s and beyond. Indeed, during April 1935,
Shumiatsky informed Stalin that film stock was being produced at
approximately two times below demand, but also at roughly two times
more than was being imported from abroad. This indicated that film
stock imports were still very significant.36
Other areas of film equipment production, such as cameras, were
less successful. Here too the quality was poor, necessitating a continued
reliance on foreign models. Soviet cameramen particularly liked the
cameras made by André Debrie’s French company as well as the German
‘Kinemo’ model and these, along with foreign lighting products,
dominated film production throughout 1930s. The USSR had been
producing its own projectors since the 1920s, but with the advent of sound,
the industry struggled to produce both the right quantity and quality of
sound projectors. As in every other sphere, Soviet technicians combined
their own ideas with foreign designs. American Super-Simplex sound
projectors were purchased for urban theatres, including Stalin’s own
private cinema and Soviet experts studied their design. While in the
countryside the Pathé silent projectors were still abundant.37
Boris Shumiatsky’s initial approach to developing Soviet cinema’s
technical base had been to try to reduce the emphasis on imported
materials and machines, emphasising the need to develop domestic cinema
equipment production. But Shumiatsky developed a more realistic attitude
by the mid-thirties, realising that Soviet technical development in cinema
had not reached acceptable standards. He was not afraid to tell the political
leadership what he thought about the quality of domestic equipment
and was instrumental in persuading Stalin and the Central Committee
that the import of more foreign products, as well as expertise, was
absolutely necessary.38 In May 1935, with Stalin’s approval and the
financial backing of the Soviet government, Shumiatsky was permitted
to lead a delegation to America to examine technical equipment and
32 SOVIET CINEMA

production processes. The main requirement for a better understanding

of film stock production was satisfied during this period. The delegation
visited the Friedman laboratory in New York where the group studied
film developing and film copying machines and were impressed by their
speed, efficiency and quality. After the delegation had returned home,
several American film technicians were invited to the USSR to help with
further improvements and development in the various areas of production.
When the technicians arrived, they were posted at Mosfilm and Lenfilm
to carry out support work. In addition, the cinema administration ordered
a sizeable quantity of technical equipment to be imported into the Soviet
Union. In 1936 Shumiatsky’s administration spent nearly 500,000 dollars
purchasing American equipment that was used to update the Soviet
studios.39
Thus, under Shumiatsky, the aspiration to achieve complete
independence for the Soviet cinema industry was gradually brushed aside
as importation continued in almost every single area associated with
cinema. As we have seen, all the key technical items were still imported,
including film stock, cameras and projectors. But other items were also
imported by Shumiatsky and his successors. Amongst them were film
printing and developing machines, cranes, special automobiles for carrying
out moving shots, as well as more minor items, such as cables. This meant
that imports varied from, for example, the 3,000 roubles released by the
government in 1940 for Ivan Bolshakov’s administration to make some
purchases in France, Germany and Switzerland to the 300,000 dollars
spent by Bolshakov’s representatives in New York in the same year, with
plans to spend three times that amount.40
Given the continued need for imported materials it is important to
note that the Soviet film industry did export materials in the 1930s
although levels of items, such as raw film stock, cameras, projectors and
so on were relatively low. As the USSR was fairly new to these areas of
production, demand for its raw film stock and equipment was almost
non-existent in the West. Most of the income from exports in the late
1930s came from neighbouring countries, such as China and Mongolia,
which were at a fairly early stage of cinema industry development.41 By
far the most profitable area of export for the Soviet film industry were
the films themselves. In the mid-to-late 1920s, Soviet films achieved both
critical and financial success in countries such as Germany and the USA.
Yet, despite the financial success, the USSR was receiving little in terms of
a currency equivalent due to relatively weak connections and understandings
 FILM ADMINISTRATION AND INDUSTRY DEVELOPMENT 33

of Western markets, as well as a lack of specialised personnel to trade with

foreign partners and establish more beneficial price policies.42 Moreover,
by 1933 the close relationship with Germany was ended by the rise of
the Nazi regime. Despite this setback, the USSR began to develop a more
professional approach to film export with the establishment in 1930 of a
specialised department called Intorgkino, which became Soiuzintorgkino
in 1933. The closure of the Berlin offices led to the set up of a new
permanent Paris office and stronger trade links were forged with America
through the Amkino Corporation in New York.
Overall though, Soviet trade links with foreign cinema industries
remained extremely basic, partly due to the general decline of world
trade in the 1930s and the increasingly inward nature of the Soviet
economic system. The export of Soviet films to America in the mid-to-
late 1930s represents a good example of how underdeveloped trade links
were at this time. In 1935 Soiuzintorgkino established an agreement with
Amkino, giving that corporation the rights of sale and rent on all types
of Soviet film. However, these rights not only covered the USA, but also
South America, Central America, Mexico, Cuba and Canada, indicating
that Soiuzintorgkino was reliant on one trading partner for the length
and breadth of an entire continent. Moreover, while the price of each
individual film was negotiable, the copies of all feature films were to be
sold for ten cents a metre, which represented a very modest figure for the
time. Given such an undeveloped export system, it is not surprising that
the actual overall income from film exports, while important, was even
lower than the levels of the late 1920s. In 1929 the Soviet Union received
1, 509,000 roubles from film exports. Throughout the 1930s, exports often
failed to yield even a third of this figure, falling to 216,000 roubles in
1940.43

GUKF
While the development of Soviet cinema’s industrial base was central for
Shumiatsky in the early to mid-1930s, changes were gradually taking
place which foresaw the shift from macromanagement, concerned with
broad industry matters, to micromanagement concerned with film content
and control over the film production process. The signs were there as
early as 11 February 1933, with a Soviet government decree ‘On the
Organisation of the State Directorate for the Film and Photo Industry’.
This new body replaced Soiuzkino and was to be directly subordinate to
Sovnarkom (Council of Peoples Commissars). The decree gave GUKF
34 SOVIET CINEMA

(the State Directorate for the Film and Photo Industry) direct authority
over several trusts formerly under Soiuzkino control. In the ideological
sphere, the new directorate was placed in charge of all higher education
institutions dealing with the training of new personnel for the cinema
industry in the RSFSR and, more importantly, GUKF was instructed to
‘observe the content of films, examine and confirm basic plans for the
production of the most important films.’44
Although the decree, and the charter that followed it were still, to a
large extent, concerned with economic factors and corresponding matters
of central administration, they also indicated that GUKF was responsible
for examining and scrutinising the yearly and quarterly plans of all union
and republic trusts for all the main types of film, as well as the plans of
the independent Mezhrapomfilm. Moreover, control over film content
was extended to the republics. The statute also devoted a section to the
administrative structure of the new state directorate. This structure was
to be headed by a manager who essentially carried out similar functions
to those of Soiuzkino. As with Soiuzkino, the chairman had a considerable
degree of autonomy.45

Shumiatsky’s Administration of GUKF

Shumiatsky’s administration of GUKF continued in a similar manner to
the way he had run its predecessor Soiuzkino. Yet, while the broad
development of the Soviet film industry still lay at the heart of the
administration’s agenda, Shumiatsky had to deal with everyday issues
too. GUKF would occasionally take action if a given trust or organisation
was failing to fulfil its obligations. This meant administrative intervention,
especially when production efficiency was being hampered in any way.
For example, in September 1934, the film stock factories complained of
constant shortages of tin boxes needed to package the new reels of film.
GUKF reacted to this shortage by ordering the director of the Samara
cinema apparatus factory to establish a new agreement with the Shostka
film stock enterprise whereby the quantity of tin boxes produced would
be more than doubled.46
As the head of Soviet cinema, Shumiatsky used his powers to employ
and dismiss on an even more frequent basis between 1933 and 1937.
Many of the sackings now took place in the industry trusts responsible
for the production of film stock, film copying, cameras, projectors, lighting
and other hardware. These factories had only or were only being built in
the early 1930s and there were seemingly endless problems with the quality
 FILM ADMINISTRATION AND INDUSTRY DEVELOPMENT 35

and quantity of output. This led to a series of usually high-profile sackings,

such as the two senior engineers based at the Shostka raw film stock factory
who were fired in September 1934 due to incompetence. On some
occasions Shumiatsky sacked enterprise heads, such as the director of
the Leningrad cinema apparatus factory, who was removed in August
1936 for the inability to deal with his workload.47
While organisational and personnel issues were central to the everyday
running of the Soviet film industry in the mid-1930s, it was at this time
that Shumiatsky began to devote more attention to the content of the
films themselves and further increase his micromanagement of the film
industry. In 1935–36 he published a series of articles in the cinema press
as well as his book A Cinema for the Millions: the Experience of Analysis
(Kinematografiia millionov: opyt analiza, 1936) in which he expressed his
arguments on the ideological and artistic content of past, present and
future Soviet films. Shumiatsky wanted to completely rid Soviet film of
Formalist cinema characterised by montage, the absence of a typical plot
or a clear line of narrative, the instrumental use of the cinema actor,
reducing him to a social type or model and often unnecessary exposition
or detail.48 Certainly, Formalist films were now in the minority, but the
slow development of sound cinema in the USSR was not helping his
cause. Shumiatsky wanted to see the creation of a mass Soviet cinema
with compact, entertaining films that would have simple plots and heroic
figures with whom the audience could identify. The mass spectator would
also be attracted by a broader range of genres including drama, comedy,
fairy tales and the biographical film, as well as new themes, ranging from
socialist construction in the town and the countryside to defence. Only
this type of cinema could effectively convey the communist message to
the broader audience.

A Soviet Hollywood?
Part of his inspiration for developing such a cinema undoubtedly came
from the USA. After returning from his three-month trip to America,
Shumiatsky and the other members of his delegation wanted to apply some
of the best aspects of American film production to the studios of the USSR.
He wanted to introduce the idea of the producer as the key manager of
every Soviet film project. Following Hollywood, Shumiatsky was convinced
of the need for producers who would deal with creating a general plan for
a given film, including estimates and specific dialogues and have full financial
control over resource distribution for a production. The producer would
36 SOVIET CINEMA

also attend to issues of film crew and actor recruitment as well as obtaining
costumes and sets. In short, the producer was expected to deal with the
general organisation of the production, allowing the film director to
concentrate on artistic matters. Nonetheless, the director was obliged to
assist the producer on the artistic aspects of the above issues.49
The Shumiatsky delegation were impressed by other aspects of
American studios which also led to high levels of efficiency, namely the
professionalism of cinema personnel, the constant improvement of
technology and especially the rationalised methods of production, which
led to a highly efficient, conveyor system. In effect, Shumiatsky and his
colleagues had observed Taylorism in practice whereby film production
was based on getting the most out of individual workers through
optimisation methods, such as the division of labour into specialist tasks.
This was hardly new to Shumiatsky as there had been calls for work
rationalisation in the early 1930s. However, this had clearly not developed
in any substantive way. Now Shumiatsky insisted on the idea of dividing
work into specialised tasks, borrowing America’s ideas of how to run a
script department, create stunt and special effects departments and
establish editing departments.50
Shumiatsky’s trip to America also inspired his most ambitious project:
to create a Soviet Hollywood. Again this idea was not entirely new, in the
early 1930s various figures from the film industry had pointed to the need
for Soviet cinema to have a southern base. Shumiatsky himself had first
mentioned the idea to Stalin in June 1934. In that same year, one journalist
described the newly established Yalta studio as such a base, suggesting that
substantial investment from GUKF could create a ‘model cinema village’.51
Nonetheless, Shumiatsky’s experience in Hollywood led to his proposal of
a huge southern cinema complex far more daring in scope than anything
previously put forward. For Shumiatsky, the idea of a Soviet Hollywood
represented the potential solution to the extremely low output of Soviet
films. Shumiatsky argued that Hollywood’s abundance of sun and minimal
levels of rain allowed them to film almost all year round. He was also
impressed by the availability of varied outdoor locations within the bounds
of the Hollywood studios. Thus he proposed the establishment of a similar
base in the Crimea, which would eliminate the difficulties of the long,
harsh winters of the north, as well as ending the expensive trips all over the
USSR to find suitable natural locations. Such a base would therefore save
money but, most importantly, it would improve efficiency, eventually yielding
800 films a year.52 Such output would also be made possible by the
 FILM ADMINISTRATION AND INDUSTRY DEVELOPMENT 37

introduction of changes recommended for all the existing studios in the

Soviet Union, namely the establishment of a producer-based system of
film-making and a strict division of specialists and labour.
The planning stage for the project seemed to go reasonably well. By
the end of 1935, Shumiatsky had produced cost estimates for the
construction of cine-city (Kino-gorod). The construction would be a large-
scale project, ranging from tree-lined streets to a huge complex capable
of housing four studios as well as permanent accommodation for the
thousands of administrators, film-makers and workers. Initially the cost
of the enterprise was estimated at 305 million roubles although this figure
rose closer to 400 million by 1936. At the beginning of 1936, GUKF set
up a special commission to investigate the most appropriate site for cine-
city. On 4 July 1936, GUKF announced that the Laspi valley near Foros
in the Crimea was its preferred location.53
Yet despite all the preparation and planning, cine-city never emerged.
In many ways such an imaginative project was precisely what the
somewhat moribund Soviet film industry needed in the late 1930s. The
idea certainly had a great deal of support, not only from Shumiatsky’s
assistants and colleagues, but also from the film-makers themselves, who
were generally very enthusiastic about the proposal. More significantly,
Stalin gave his full support to the plan, challenging government figures
opposed to the project by stating to Shumiatsky in 1935: ‘Of course we
need a cine-city. Objectors cannot see further than their own noses. Can
our cinema really rest on a dwarf base?’54 Stalin maintained a close interest
in the development of the plan for cine-city and continued to support the
idea until the general tide of opinion began to turn against Shumiatsky,
during the last months of 1937. This was particularly evident in the press
where there were references to ‘alien ideology’ and the attempt to
introduce methods of mass production ‘alien to the spirit of Soviet
culture’.55 In October 1937, the newspaper Kino (Cinema) published an
article denouncing one of the project’s key proponents, Vladimir Nilsen.
It also announced that the plan, which was considered to have been a
potential waste of money, was only stopped by the ‘intervention’ of state
organs and the Soviet public.56

The All-Union Committee for the Arts

On the 17 January 1936, the Central Committee and Sovnarkom adopted
a decree ‘On the Establishment of an All-Union Committee for the Arts’.
The Arts Committee was intended to unify ‘the entire leadership in the
38 SOVIET CINEMA

development of art’ in the USSR.57 This piece of legislation represented

a further attempt to centralise all the main artistic organisations in the
USSR, including cinema. The demands that GUKF be subordinated to
the new Arts Committee and that the republican Narkompros organs
hand over the financial means for running cinema organisations and
educational institutions, suggested a reduction in autonomy for GUKF.
Indeed, while the Arts Committee was partly established to unite personnel
from all branches of the arts and ensure the greater interaction between
the republics and the centre, it was fundamentally the result of recent
dissatisfaction among the leadership with a series of so-called ‘Formalist’
productions in the arts, including the film Prometheus (Prometei, 1935). The
new chairman of the Arts Committee, Platon Kerzhentsev, stated that
one of the central roles of the committee would be the implementation
‘of the correct political line in the arts’. He also suggested that the
committee would give ‘special attention’ to cinema.58
Evidently, Shumiatsky’s failure to adequately control the ideological
nature of film production was part of the reason for the establishment of
the new Arts Committee. On 22 July 1936, the new body issued a decree,
confirming GUKF’s thematic plan for that year, but calling for the addition
of other themes, ranging from Stakhanovism to the Soviet woman. The
Arts Committee demanded that GUKF actually produce the number of
films included in the plan. It also proposed that GUKF give particular
attention to the production of certain films in the plan, especially those
of an ideological character. Shumiatsky was ordered to strengthen control
over the scripts passed for production, as well as maintain closer checks
on the entire process of film-making and the release of films. The decree
concluded that all completed films accepted for release by GUKF must
then be viewed and approved by the Arts Committee, before reaching
the general public.59
Thus the Arts Committee was intended to fulfil the role of ideological
enforcer over GUKF and Shumiatsky. However, the short two-year
influence of the body on the cinema administration became yet another
organisational failure. Although some of the priority ideological films
were made between 1936 and 1938, Shumiatsky failed to prevent the
commencement of production of controversial films, such as Abram
Room’s A Strict Youth (Strogii iunosha, 1936) Garin and Lokshin’s The Marriage
(Zhenitba, 1936), Mikhail Dubson’s Large Wings (Bolshie krylia, 1937) or Sergei
Eisenstein’s Bezhin Meadow (Bezhin lug, 1937) among the many others. The
Arts Committee was also unsuccessful in improving GUKF’s performance
 FILM ADMINISTRATION AND INDUSTRY DEVELOPMENT 39

in terms of film output, which became worse.

Moreover, the precise areas of competence conferred on the Arts
Committee and GUKF were not clear. In August 1936, Shumiatsky gave
a warning to the director of Lenfilm, Leonti Katsnelson, over the studio’s
failure to secure a group of actors with an adequate salary. A few days
later, the Chairman of the Arts Committee also issued a warning to
Katsnelson for failing to turn up to another disciplinary hearing with the
Committee.60 This sort of duplication was largely due to the fact that
GUKF’s role did not fundamentally change with the arrival of the Arts
Committee. Indeed, Kerzhentsev made a formal complaint to Molotov
about Shumiatsky in August 1936, stating that the latter refused to
recognise the authority of the new institution, and simply continued to
run the industry as he had before without any reference to the head of
the new body. Kerzhentsev recommended Shumiatsky’s removal, but the
Party and government tended to correspond with both men which simply
added to the confusion. 61
Shumiatsky and the cinema administration were now increasingly
under attack and thus had to develop their own strategy to defend their
autonomy and power. This involved a substantial effort to prove to Stalin
and the Party leadership that he was not only a loyal, committed
communist, but also a careful protector of all things Bolshevik in the
domain of cinema. From this point on, Shumiatsky got embroiled in a
conflict with Kerzhentsev as both men tried to prove that they were the
genuine defenders of Bolshevism and that the film industry could only
serve its required political function under either of these individuals’
control. As we have seen, Kerzhentsev tried to get rid of Shumiatsky
from the beginning, but Shumiatsky fought back. For instance, In
December 1937, he wrote to Stalin and Molotov complaining that the
Arts Committee was using its control of the censorship body GURK
(Main Administration for the Control of Shows and Repertory) to ban a
whole series of films of both ideological and artistic value. Shumiatsky
claimed that the bans had no foundation whatsoever and were hindering
the work of the cinema administration. He also argued that the Committee
for Artistic Affairs was failing to implement the Party and government
line in cinema.62 Indeed, it was clear that the Arts Committee was an
unnecessary extra layer in the running of the Soviet film industry. The
concern over the precise role of the Arts Committee had been belatedly
recognised several months earlier on 23 June 1937 when GUK (the State
Directorate for the Film Industry, as it became known from January 1937)
40 SOVIET CINEMA

formally lost the powers granted in its original charter.63 Yet, the Arts
Committee never really took full control of cinema and this redundant
role led to its replacement in March 1938 when the Cinema Committee
was established.
Another method by which Shumiatsky tried to defend himself would
be to appeal to Stalin with whom he enjoyed a relatively good relationship,
or to Molotov, the head of the Soviet government. Shumiatsky’s desire to
please the leader was particularly evident in one of his last measures as
chairman of GUK. This involved equipping the Kremlin cinema with
an automatic projector and lamp, as well as imported and expensive
American sound equipment.64 During the last two years as head of the
cinema industry, Shumiatsky also spent a lot of time writing letters to
Stalin and leading members of the Party and Soviet government. On
occasion, the letters were more substantive reports on industry
development or ideas for the future. Most of them were directed at Stalin,
pleading for more funds for general industry development. Shumiatsky’s
requests for economic support also extended to specific requirements.
For instance, Shumiatsky wrote to Stalin and Molotov in November 1936
asking for 15,000 dollars to provide film stock for cameramen working in
Spain during the civil war.65 More typically, the cinema head would ask
for extra funds for Soviet films which invariably exceeded their budgetary
limits. In December 1937, Shumiatsky wrote to Stalin to inform him of
the necessity of filming expensive battle scenes for part two of the film
Peter the Great (Petr pervyi, 1938). This, Shumiatsky argued, meant that the
overall cost of the film could be up to 7.5 million roubles. In the end the
film was given a budget of between 3 and 4 million roubles.66 Shumiatsky
wanted patronage and approval as a sound, politically reliable leader of
film industry and, until his last few months in control, it appears that he
was relatively successful at gaining the leader’s favour and support. The
result of the battle to defend Bolshevik ideals and personal positions of
authority and influence was the virtual paralysis of film production in
the USSR.
This was perhaps most obvious in Shumiatsky’s increasing role as a
censor. In the mid-to-late 1930s, Shumiatsky became increasingly involved
in determining the fate of films that he or others considered to be
ideologically unsound. When the film was a big production, Shumiatsky
sought advice from senior Party/government officials or from Stalin
himself. In 1935 Shumiatsky had seen an early rough edit of Ivan
Kavaleridze’s Prometheus produced at Ukrainfilm in Kiev. He considered
 FILM ADMINISTRATION AND INDUSTRY DEVELOPMENT 41

the film to be ‘completely unacceptable, mistaken in direction and

extremely low in terms of its creative standards’. Shumiatsky wrote a
letter to the Politburo recommending that the film be altered in several
places. The Politburo agreed with Shumiatsky. Yet it seems that Ukrainfilm
did not take any action. Consequently, the film was released in its original
form in Leningrad for six days and was advertised in the Moscow press as
due for release at the same time. Shumiatsky showed Prometheus to Stalin
after which GUFK issued a decree banning the film.67 During his last
two years as industry head, Shumiatsky became increasingly obsessed
with micro-managing film projects at the early script stage. On a daily
basis Shumiatsky wrote letters to studios expressing dissatisfaction with
scripts or changes that had been made. He became ever more conservative
towards new ideas, fearing that he might let something ideologically
unacceptable through the net. He began to check all feature film scripts
which led to an inevitable slowing down of the checking process with
many of them remaining in his office for weeks. As an insurance policy,
Shumiatsky would order his assistants to include phrases in his concluding
decisions, such as ‘despite GUK’s orders’ thus avoiding responsibility for
any future criticism levelled at any given film.68
Shumiatsky also exercised ideological control by deliberately
excommunicating film-makers who he believed would not have anything
to offer a ‘cinema for the millions’. He was, to some extent, responsible
for frustrating the careers of avant-garde directors, in particular, Sergei
Eisenstein, Lev Kuleshov and Dziga Vertov. By way of illustration, in
February 1938, just after the arrest and execution of Shumiatsky,
Kuleshov wrote a letter to the new, incoming head of cinema, Semyon
Dukelsky, stating that Shumiatsky had refused his proposals to make
films and had deliberately blocked him from working. As a result his
film-making career was in tatters and he was essentially pleading for
another chance. We also know that Shumiatsky stopped the production
of Sergei Eisenstein’s film Bezhin Lug (1937), before publicly denouncing
the director as a Formalist.69 Other film-makers who claimed to be
victims of Shumiatsky’s ‘cinema for the millions’ agenda included
Mikhail Dubson, Margarita Barskaia and Sergei Yutkevich. But while
Shumiatsky excluded or made life difficult for some film-makers, he
was more generous to his trusted friends, including Fridrikh Ermler,
Grigori Alexandrov, Mikhail Romm, Leonid Kozinstev and Ilia
Trauberg. It is clear that Shumiatsky’s tenure involved a significant
degree of cronyism. Not only were his friends trusted with major
42 SOVIET CINEMA

productions, they were given the best flats and their actress wives and
girlfriends were frequently given leading roles in their own films.70

The Last and Most Significant Decrees of the 1930s

The 1930s had seen a gradual process of increasing administrative and
government control over the cinema industry. Nonetheless, there were
still significant levels of autonomy in several key areas, such as cinefication
and distribution, which led Stalin to demand full centralisation.71 Stalin’s
demands soon became government laws. On 23 March 1938, a decree
entitled: ‘On the Development of a Committee for Cinema Affairs’ was
signed. The opening clause of the decree was very purposeful, declaring
that the development of the new Cinema Committee was intended to
lead to the ‘improvement and unification of the leadership of
cinematography [and] putting in order the matters of cinefication,
production and rental of films’. Leadership of the production process
was firmly placed in the hands of the Cinema Committee with all the
cinema enterprises and organisations formerly under GUK and Arts
Committee control now being passed on to the new body. The cinefication
administration was also liquidated, bringing control of theatre and factory
construction under the grip of the Committee on Cinema Affairs. The
cinema organisations in the constituent republics and in the regions of
the RSFSR theoretically became fully subordinate organs of the new
Cinema Committee and would be controlled through republic or local
Sovnarkom bodies. In addition, a council would be set up in the Cinema
Committee to scrutinise general production and thematic plans for films,
cinefication and distribution in the republics and regions. Rossnabfilm,
the distribution trust, which caused so much concern, was finally liquidated
and all its local agencies were centralised into the Cinema Committee
under the new name ‘Soiuzkinoprokat’, which would have a monopoly
on all film distribution throughout the USSR. This new monopoly right
meant that all distributors in the republics were to be firmly directed
from the centre.72 However, although the laws of 1938 undoubtedly moved
centralisation to a new level, In December 1939, over a year and eight
months since the original decree, serious concerns were raised that those
in charge of distributing cinema installations in the RSFSR and the
republics were ‘refusing to obey’ the centre and making their own decisions
as to where cinema facilities should be based. The facilities were being
distributed mainly in the more profitable cities and towns, leaving some
areas without any cinema outlets. Moreover, when the 1938 decrees were
 FILM ADMINISTRATION AND INDUSTRY DEVELOPMENT 43

implemented, the cinema network was still divided into the trust network,
consisting of exhibition outlets under cinema administration or central
state control and the non-trust network, which was controlled by trade
unions, factories, kolkhoz or sovkhoz administrations, as well as
organisations, such as the Pioneers and educational establishments. The
decree failed to unify these networks. For instance, trade unions continued
to develop their own cinefication programmes and, even for those theatres
that fell within the trust system, organisational chaos reigned. The attempt
to end commercial-style distribution also proved to be an illusion.
Soiuzkinoprokat was aware of the fact that the vast majority of non-trust
installations, especially the workers’ clubs, had been losing millions of
roubles on a yearly basis and that distributing limited supplies of new
film copies immediately to these outlets was financial suicide. The direct
consequence of this reality was the continuation of the system whereby
the highly profitable urban theatres continued to get the new films and
best prints while the workers’ clubs and rural installations received an
unpredictable flow of dated films, which were often in a dreadful
condition.73
The second decree also issued by Sovnarkom on 23 March 1938, was
even more noteworthy for its content. The legislation was entitled: ‘On
the Improvement of the Organisation of Film Production’. The most
noteworthy aspects of this decree are those that indicate a concern with
introducing a firmer political and ideological grip on the film-making
process. Unlike previous years where relatively little had been done from
a legislative perspective to impose political and ideological control, several
aspects of the decree suggested that this was about to change. The changes
were particularly notable in the sphere of script production. The
establishment of script departments, with the tasks of creating scripts
alongside film production plans, establishing a script reserve and attracting
professional script writers, can on one level plausibly be seen as a measure
to prevent script shortages and improve organisation, discipline and
efficiency in the production process. Yet this was essentially an attempt to
gain control over the nature of film content.74
In contradistinction to many of the other centralising measures
introduced in 1938, the creation of a script department within the new
Cinema Committee significantly changed the system of film production.
Now the script, which used to emerge from the studios, would begin its
life in the Cinema Committee’s script department. The difference now
was that this department produced a strict plan of production that had to
44 SOVIET CINEMA

be approved by the Cinema Committee chairman from the very beginning.

Within the Cinema Committee, production-managerial departments were
established. They examined the director’s montage script and the
production plans, which meant that every dialogue and frame would be
checked and accounted for, as would all the projected expenditures of a
given project, before again being approved by the Cinema Committee
chairman. During the filming process itself, the production-managerial
departments were responsible for insuring that the film-makers stuck to
the approved director’s montage script and any changes were strictly
forbidden. Finally, the studio’s artistic council would examine the finished
product, before passing it on to the studio director who then passed it on
to the Cinema Committee chairman for permission to release the film.75

Dukelsky
Semyon Semyonovich Dukelsky became the head of the new Cinema
Committee on 23 March 1938.76 Dukelsky had previously been the chief
of the Voronezh NKVD (People’s Commissariat of Internal Affairs) and
his appointment was a political measure intended to accompany the recent
centralising decrees. In fact the new cinema industry head was the
embodiment of the very worst aspects of the Bolshevik defensive mentality
in that he was prepared to destroy film productions that, in his view, did
not glorify the Party, its leaders and its policies in some way. Dukelsky
differed from Shumiatsky through an even stronger emphasis on discipline
and control over cinema. It was not long before he issued a decree on
labour discipline which led to a series of dismissals and legal action against
workers who had been late for work, not turned up, or had arrived in a
drunken state. He also established a military style regime of daily
registration at studios, theatres and enterprises intended to monitor the
movements of each worker.77 Despite Dukelsky’s draconian discipline,
he failed to end the low levels of production that were becoming
increasingly critical. Indeed, Dukelsky’s dogmatic demands that films
made in 1938 should reflect themes of ‘modernity’ helped to reduce
production even more. His misguided attempts to defend and foster the
dissemination of films favourable to contemporary Party-sponsored issues
had an extremely negative impact. The director Mikhail Romm recalls
how he was summoned to Dukelsky’s office along with many other
directors who were told that any production not relevant to modern themes
would be cancelled. The difficulty with Dukelsky’s decision was that this
included several high-profile, expensive films, which were either finished
 FILM ADMINISTRATION AND INDUSTRY DEVELOPMENT 45

or close to completion. Among them were Romm’s Queen of Spades (Pikovaia

dama) and Iurenev’s Blue and Pink (Goluboe i rozovoe). Miron Bilinsky’s Old
Fortress (Staraia krepost) had been completed in Kiev, but an editor had
forgotten to include it in a plan presented to Dukelsky who, accordingly,
ordered the film to be destroyed. Other projects, such as Pudovkin’s and
Doller’s Suvorov, were cancelled. This film was only produced after the
removal of Dukelsky in 1939.78 Inevitably, such a rash policy did not help
improve film output. In 1938 a mere thirty-eight films were made, only
three more than in 1937, suggesting that the government’s and Dukelsky’s
methods of introducing order to Soviet cinema were proving to be less
than effective.
Dukelsky extended his role as an enforcer of work discipline to the
area of financial discipline. On the one hand, this meant a ban on wasting
any film stock whatsoever during a given production. This was, of course,
a completely unrealistic request given that unwanted shots were inevitable
on even the most carefully planned project. On the other hand, Dukelsky’s
financial discipline led to even more serious consequences for film-makers.
On 5 January 1939, Dukelsky, in accordance with a general Sovnarkom
decree, issued an order ‘On the new system of work payment for directors,
cameramen, authors of scripts and music productions’. The decree ended
the system by which these creative workers would receive their main
income in the form of a fixed percentage of ticket sales. From now on,
directors would receive from 6,000 to 50,000 roubles and cameramen
would receive from 2,000 to 15,000 roubles dependent on the ‘quality’
and ‘character’ of the film. The same criteria were applied to scriptwriters
and musicians who would gain no more than 40,000 and 15,000 roubles
respectively. In all cases, works of an outstanding level would receive
additional rewards in agreement with Sovnarkom.79
Dukelsky defended the new system, arguing that films should be
rewarded according to their quality rather than to the number of
spectators that saw each movie. In Dukelsky’s view, film-makers’ income
did not always depend on how hard they had worked and the best film-
makers were not being paid according to a state controlled system that
would encourage ‘creative competition’.80 Dukelsky’s argument that film-
maker income depended on the haphazard nature of the distribution
system was, to a large extent, true. However, this new measure was not
essentially about rewarding the best films. Instead, the move was aimed
at significantly reducing the income of the broader group of creative
personnel to redirect revenues into the state coffers. By way of illustration,
46 SOVIET CINEMA

in the mid-1930s the directors of Chapaev (1934), Georgi and Sergei Vasilev,
received nearly one million roubles between them from tickets sales for
that film, Vladimir Petrov also received five hundred thousand roubles
for his film Peter the Great while a lesser-known director of children’s films,
Nikolai Lebedev, received approximately three hundred thousand roubles
for his film Fedka (1937).81 Even if we take into account the fact that,
under the new system, directors would also be given a monthly salary of
between 1200 and 2000 roubles, the new changes represented clear state
exploitation of cinema personnel crudely masked as a means of socialist
levelling. The new law was also created to engender conformity among
film-makers as the criterion of ‘quality’ meant quality defined according
to the typical political yardstick. Many film-makers recognised that
producing films according to the required themes and formulas would
now be even more likely to give them a higher income.

Ivan Bolshakov
Semyon Dukelsky was removed as chairman of the Cinema Committee,
‘at his own request’, on 4 June 1939. He was immediately replaced by
Ivan Bolshakov, formerly a manager of Sovnarkom affairs.82 Bolshakov
was undoubtedly more liberal than his predecessor and, eventually, he
would give his careful support to a surge of dissatisfaction from below,
which had begun long before his appointment. Under Bolshakov these
criticisms became more and more vociferous and they were no longer
being used as weapons against past administrators, but as calls for change.
It was clear that the way in which cinema had been organised and
administered, with the guiding hand of defensive thinking, had failed to
produce the desired results. On the contrary, the obsessive checks and
heavy-handed discipline had led to an industry that was stagnating in
almost every way. At the chairman’s first meeting with representatives of
the cinema industry in August 1939, Mikhail Romm criticised the script
problem. Romm was concerned about the endless censorship mechanisms
through which scripts had to pass before being put into production. In
particular, he complained that changes had been made to scripts without
the participation of the authors. He also argued that, when working on
the director’s script, the director should have the right to consult
composers, actors, artists and cameramen. As part of the solution, Romm
called for the establishment of a creative union of film-makers. Ivan Pyrev
took this further by calling for the establishment of an artistic council
under the auspices of the Cinema Committee, which would allow film-
 FILM ADMINISTRATION AND INDUSTRY DEVELOPMENT 47

makers to ‘discuss matters of a creative nature and find the correct

solutions’. At the same meeting, Alexander Medvedkin again pointed to
the bad relations between the cinema administration and the film-makers.
In his view this was largely due to the administration’s lack of attention
towards the initiative and ideas of individual directors and cameramen.
The fundamental connection between many of these complaints was
clear: the film-makers were calling for more autonomy as a means to
moving the industry forward.83
In such a crisis situation, it was clear that some sort of fundamental
structural changes would have to take place if the industry were to start
functioning adequately. In contradistinction to the early to mid-thirties,
when Shumiatsky still had enough autonomy to shape the cinema
institutions, Bolshakov was in a less powerful position. So, in 1940, the
Soviet government issued two decrees, which responded to the crisis and
the dissatisfaction from below. The first of these, issued on the 11 January
1940, established artistic councils in the Moscow, Leningrad, Kiev, Tbilisi,
Odessa and Soiuzdetfilm studios. The second decree emerged on 29
October of that year. It created several artistic leader posts at most of the
Soviet studios and within the Cinema Committee. Bolshakov
enthusiastically supported the new decrees, arguing that the new
institutions would broadly deal with artistic matters:

They will scrutinise and discuss the studios’ thematic plans, the
director’s cameraman’s, artist’s and sound engineer’s production
plans, each director’s script, the set design sketches; they will view
shot material from films and discuss it; organise help for individual
film crews and look over completed films before they are handed
over to the Committee.84

Given the levels of centralisation that had been gradually imposed on

the industry during the 1930s, these were unexpected and fairly radical
measures on the part of the Soviet government. Although the new system
did not immediately yield dividends, within the course of a few months it
was evident that the film-makers were far more satisfied with the new
regime and studios were beginning to slowly turn around.
Bolshakov not only recognised the fact that the reforms would move
Soviet cinema forward, but he saw further reform as a means to
unburdening the Cinema Committee and thus improving the
administrative efficiency of the industry. Bolshakov himself had to
48 SOVIET CINEMA

read and reread every script and watch every film. This, as it had over
recent years, inevitably slowed down potential output. Bolshakov
proposed that the Committee should only approve of the original
version of the script. This would undoubtedly provide the studio with
more autonomy to develop final versions of scripts. Bolshakov also
argued that the studios should have more economic independence
and responsibility. He, along with Mikhail Romm, believed that the
Cinema Committee should set a financial limit for each production.
Subsequently, the studio would issue the details of how much the film
should cost, how long it should take to make and so on. If a film were
to become more expensive than the set limit, then it would be the
responsibility of the studio to find the resources by making savings on
other film projects. Bolshakov and Romm also argued for the
establishment of a ‘directors fund’ whereby a small percentage of a
studio’s income could be set aside to support productions that might
not provide the guarantee of good financial returns. Sovnarkom turned
down this particular request immediately. 85
A planned Central Committee decree created in 1941 sought to
address some of these issues. The planned decree was undoubtedly
weighted towards more control from above with the call for the script
departments in the studio to be fully subordinate to the administration
and the demand that only approved scripts should be included in the
studios’ plans. The proposal did also make some important concessions,
granting more autonomy to the studios. In response to the proposals
supported by Bolshakov and Romm, it was suggested that the Cinema
Committee only approve original scripts and the cost limits of films
as well as giving permission for production to go ahead and checking
the finished product. This meant that the studio directors and film-
makers would have more autonomy in relation to the development of
the director’s script and in financial areas such as budgeting and
estimates. In addition to the measures already taken, the introduction
of these proposals would have undoubtedly helped to improve the
ongoing crisis in Soviet cinematography. However, the decree was
never introduced due to the onset of the war and was forgotten with
the passage of time.86

An Appraisal
Shumiatsky’s ambition to develop a genuine ‘cinema for the millions’ did
have some success. Although many film-makers themselves had shown
 FILM ADMINISTRATION AND INDUSTRY DEVELOPMENT 49

their own political and artistic initiative in developing ideologically correct

films in the early 1930s, Shumiatsky also played a key role by facilitating
the production and release of films that would entertain and politically
educate the mass audience. Indeed, in the case of Alexandrov’s The Happy
Guys (Veselye rebiata, 1934) Shumiatsky was involved from start to finish.
After seeing the original jazz music hall comedy The Musical Shop in
Leningrad, Shumiatsky suggested to Leonid Utesov that the show be
turned into a film. Subsequently, Shumiatsky defended the film, now called
The Happy Guys, as it went into production from protesting senior Party
officials and figures at Mosfilm and secured its release despite strong
opposition. Three years later Shumiatsky was again involved in supporting
the production of Volga Volga (1938), which proved to be a popular mass
film. Boris Babitsky, the director of Mosfilm, demanded that the script
for Volga Volga be cut. Shumiatsky intervened to ensure that the film-makers’
ideas would not be compromised and that any cuts would be minimal. As
noted, such involvement and support won Shumiatsky many allies among
creative personnel.87 During Shumiatsky’s tenure some high quality mass
films were made, albeit in relatively small quantities, that managed to
combine entertainment with the communist political message.
At the same time, we find many examples of films made between
1930–1938 which did not fit into the neat ‘cinema for the millions’ formula,
or which even mocked or criticised the new Soviet reality. While, as we
have seen, Shumiatsky did show much concern over the ideological content
of films, he knew that the production of a few high-quality mass films
such as Chapaev or The Happy Guys was simply not enough. He was
convinced that the Soviet cinema industry had to aspire to the large scale
production of this type of mass, politicised film and that this could only
be realised if the infrastructure was sufficiently developed to meet this
task. Thus, as well as his general commitment to the Bolshevik plan to
close the development gap, Shumiatsky tended to focus more on broad
industry development during his early years and this was also reflected in
the official decrees and government measures.
Nonetheless, while, under Shumiatsky, the Soviet film industry made
remarkable leaps forward during the 1930s, it still failed to reach the
masses in the way that had been planned in 1928 and it had not achieved
its goal of economic independence. On the one hand, Shumiatsky was
faced with very difficult contextual circumstances. The cinema industry
struggled for much of the 1930s to accumulate capital, partly due to a
burdensome tax regime, and sometimes had to rely on state loans.
50 SOVIET CINEMA

Shortages of key components, such as microphones or lenses tended to

undermine the good work being done by Soviet technicians and engineers;
shortages of electricity were still a fundamental problem for the developing
cinema industry during the 1930s and this affected cinefication; Soviet
cinema lacked a significant quantity of technical personnel who could be
relied upon to generate the knowledge required to create the
infrastructural base of the industry; the efficiency of those workers who
had received the necessary training was also compromised by the nature
of the bureaucratic Soviet economic system with its emphasis on quantity
over quality.
On the other hand, Shumiatsky’s limited achievements were also partly
due to his irreconcilable ideas. Throughout his tenure, he called for huge
increases in film output, knowing that he had neither the personnel nor
the resources to realise such unrealistic goals. He wanted the Soviet
government to benefit from cinema’s substantial tax revenues yet he fought
hard to gain financial resources back for the development of the industry.
He wanted to introduce the best of capitalist production techniques, but
still supported the inefficient and ineffective implementation of planning
to every aspect of Soviet cinema.
The eventual burial of the cine-city project prevented what could
have been Shumiatsky’s most innovative legacy. In the end the Soviet
government must be blamed for failing to show commitment to even a
gradual realisation of the plan, which might have transformed Soviet
cinema. It did not consider the long-term benefits of such a project. In
subsequent decades the cinema administration was forced to continue
wasting vast sums of money on expensive filming expeditions throughout
the USSR. Problematic weather conditions in the north continued to
plague Soviet film production for decades to come and yearly film output
only began to reach decent levels by the end of the 1950s.
Shumiatsky’s disciplinarian approach to the industry, which saw endless
dismissals and reprimands, was intended to encourage better work
practices, but the lack of financial incentives was one of the root causes
of indiscipline, theft and poor productivity. Shumiatsky was aware that a
purely disciplinarian approach could not produce a thriving Soviet film
industry. His desire to introduce capitalist production methods into Soviet
cinema might have helped to improve the organisation of production,
but in the end Shumiatsky’s reform programme was never properly
implemented and the organisational structures of Soviet cinema continued
to exist in essentially the same form. Discipline became the guiding
 FILM ADMINISTRATION AND INDUSTRY DEVELOPMENT 51

principle for all of Dukelsky’s measures. Yet, Dukelsky’s approach failed

to recognise that film-makers and other personnel needed incentives to
encourage creativity and hard work. Discipline and dogmatic demands
alone simply helped prolong the stagnation. For instance, the significant
reduction of income for film-makers was hardly a stimulus to produce
high-quality films. As Shumiatsky eventually recognised, Soviet cinema
did not need more authoritarian and disciplinarian measures, it needed
to be expanded and given proper resources, well-educated specialists and
better organisation from top to bottom.
During the last years of his tenure Shumiatsky’s ambitious plans to
transform Soviet cinema into a truly powerful industry began to fade.
Shumiatsky was a committed Bolshevik who wanted to protect the Marxist
political ideal as much as his contemporaries, but he knew that their
policies had so far failed to yield results for Soviet cinema. Unfortunately,
leading Party figures were not sympathetic to his Hollywood-inspired plans
as the dominant Bolshevik way of thinking tended to be less flexible or
open to alternative ideas of Western origins. In this context of increasing
defensiveness and central control, Shumiatsky had no alternative but to
ape the prevailing Bolshevik strategy which, again, was becoming more
evident in official decrees. The criticisms of his chairmanship by the Arts
Committee and the press among others, added to the sense that
Shumiatsky was under siege. Defending Bolshevism, its leaders and ideas
thus became a means of both protecting the grand idea to which he was
committed and of defending his own position of power by presenting
himself as a loyal communist. The consequence of Shumiatsky’s defensive
strategy, consistent with the Bolshevik outlook, was the virtual paralysis
of film production. Although the cinema administration rightly recognised
that cinema was, to a large extent a mass art form, the increase of
micromanagement in the latter part of the 1930s, especially in the
ideological sense, arguably narrowed down creativity to an excessive
degree. The type of cinematic experimentation characteristic of the 1920s
was not given the same support and outlets that it once had. The
application of thematic planning as well as the deliberate prevention of
certain film-makers from working were just some of the measures that
made life very difficult for those involved in film production.
As we have seen, administrative centralisation, which reached new
heights in 1938 with the arrival of Dukelsky, did in fact have a limited
impact in areas, such as film distribution, where chaos often reigned.
Where the cinema administration did gain a firmer grip, such as the
52 SOVIET CINEMA

process of production, the result was to further paralyse the industry’s

film output. Pockets of autonomy, whether deliberate or accidental, had
been central to the functioning of Soviet cinema during the 1930s. The
effort to eliminate these elements of autonomy under Dukelsky was both
unsuccessful and irrational. During his short period of control, film-makers
had already begun to voice their complaints on the state of the industry
and the arrival of the slightly more liberal Bolshakov gave these grievances
more momentum. Bolshakov recognised that, if the Soviet cinema industry
were to improve its performance and become more efficient, the film-
makers and studios had to maintain a degree of autonomy. While
Bolshakov was not responsible for the measures intended to grant this
autonomy, it is fair to say that he sympathised with the film-makers’
grievances and helped the surge of dissatisfaction to be properly heard.
The introduction of the artistic councils, as well as the liberal elements
of the planned 1941 decree, showed that the government and the cinema
administration understood that defensively guided centralisation had
brought limited practical outcomes and that an element of decentralisation
was a practical necessity to placate the film-makers and improve the
productivity of the film industry. In the end the failure to implement the
1941 decree was to contribute to the further decay of the industry, which,
by the early 1950s, had almost ground to a halt.
 53

CHAPTER 2

CENSORSHIP

F
rom the late 1920s onwards, Soviet cinema was subjected to an
increasingly draconian system of censorship. In this chapter we
shall observe that censorship operated on a number of different
levels and emanated from different sources of power. It is possible to identify
a distinct element of Bolshevik defensive thinking which, to a large extent,
underpinned the elaborate system of checks and controls. We argued above
that the Bolsheviks tended to subscribe to an inflexible, dogmatic brand of
Marxism with a very real sense of scientific certitude. This generated a sort
of intellectual megalomania whereby the revolutionaries claimed to
understand the ‘riddle of history’. But a constant fear and insecurity
coexisted alongside this megalomania that their political ideal might fail to
engage the masses or be undermined in some way. Thus for cinema to
perform its function as a frontline defence weapon against counter
arguments, cynicism or dissatisfaction with unrealised promises, its film
productions would have to undergo rigorous checks. By the end of the
1930s the rejection of ideas that did not deal with required political matters
of the day, or praise the regime in some way, meant that the prospect of a
genuine ‘cinema for the millions’ was in real jeopardy as the entertainment
aspect of Soviet films was subject to increasing attacks.
The first censorship body properly devoted to controlling Soviet films
was GRK (State Repertoire Committee) established by a Sovnarkom decree
on 9 February 1923.1 In keeping with the relatively liberal spirit of the
1920s, GRK’s censorship regime in these years was mild. But, towards the
end of the 1920s, GRK started to ban films more frequently. Some films
were removed for idealising ‘bourgeois decadence’ or ‘low morals’. Other
films removed from circulation included those that showed crime,
prostitution and other ‘depravities’. The main target, particularly in the
54 SOVIET CINEMA

latter half of the decade, was foreign product such as detective or crime
films. In November 1928, nearly three hundred foreign films were withdrawn
from distribution. It appears that most of these had already been viewed
by the few who had access to decent cinemas, yet the figure included many
popular mass films such as those featuring the German actor Harry Piel.2
GRK also banned many Soviet films between 1929 and the mid-
1930s. It is particularly noteworthy that an unusually high proportion of
the bans, especially from 1929–1933, were imposed on films from Ukraine,
Belorussia, Georgia, Armenia and other Soviet republics. Among some
of the most notable banned films was Kote Mikaberidze’s My Grandmother
(Moia babushka, 1929), a brilliant satire on the Soviet bureaucratic machine.
The Artistic Political Council within GRK imposed the ban rightly
considering the film to be anti-Soviet and likely to engender a negative
attitude towards Soviet bureaucracy and power in general.3 However,
most of the foreign and Soviet films were banned not due to their political
content, but on a basis that they contained what the Bolsheviks regarded
as ‘mindless’ romantic or adventure stories. Many leading Bolsheviks,
who controlled the structures of censorship, felt obliged to denounce
popular entertainment films. They referred to American and Soviet
popular movies as ‘trivial’, ‘vulgar’, ‘banal’ and even ‘harmful’. This
language, which was often highly condescending, revealed a profound
insecurity integral to the Bolshevik defensive mentality which recognised
that the broad mass of ordinary people found their political world rather
tedious and much preferred entertainment films to the idea of participating
in anti-capitalist political debates. The revolutionaries had a profound need
for acceptance by the people they claimed to represent. However, they
mistakenly believed that they could achieve acceptance by ‘civilising’ the
masses and revealing to them exactly what life should be about.
Nevertheless, up until 1935, many older foreign films remained in
circulation, which indicated that Glavrepertkom was not always consistent
in its decisions. These included foreign romantic films and dramas, such
as the German hit Moulin Rouge (1928), starring Olga Chekhova, or Chicago
(1927) a crime story about a heavy-drinking young woman called Roxie
Hart who murders her boyfriend after he leaves her, but somehow avoids
conviction. Given that numerous films were being and had been banned
for containing crime or decadent images of bourgeois life, it is hard to see
how some of these films were distinguished from the others as being worthy
of distribution. The need to make basic financial gains for the cinema
industry was a central factor and still influenced decisions in the 1930s.
 C ENSORSHIP 55

However, this inconsistency in cinema censorship helped fuel the calls for
tighter controls and led to a prevailing trend to gradually eliminate the
foreign and popular as well as the nationally distinctive from the Soviet
film repertoire. From 1933 onwards GRK became increasingly
insignificant. GRK was renamed the GURK (see above) in 1933. During
the mid-1930s, however, the new body became a rubber stamp for the
Orgburo’s cinema committee and Stalin. In 1936 GRK, as it was still
known, was absorbed into the Komitet po Delam Iskusstv (All-Union
Committee for the Arts), before then becoming part of the Cinema
Committee structure established in 1938.4

A Russian
version of an
advert for the
foreign film
Moulin Rouge
(1929).
56 SOVIET CINEMA

The Bolsheviks saw their political outlook not only as a means of

mass liberation, but also as a means of education and improvement.
Marxism placed great emphasis on the intellectual liberation of the
ordinary person from the drudgery and monotony of life under capitalism.
The Bolsheviks wanted to provide audiences with films that dealt with
real political and social issues. The elevated Marxist ideal of an
emancipated mass suggested that ordinary people could potentially
become more cultured and leave behind ‘vulgar’ forms of entertainment.
Believing in the certainty of their mission, the Bolsheviks were sure that,
given the opportunity, the masses would rather watch politicised films
that dealt with serious issues rather than thrillers or detective stories.
Following the Party conference on cinema in 1928, it seemed that this
myth had been dispelled and a new direction had been taken, which
accepted the people’s love of entertainment and sought to combine this
with politics. But, in reality, prejudices against mass cinema were enduring
and despite the plan to merge entertainment with politics, the latter was
often, if not always, given priority.

The Role of ARRK/ODSK and Worker Audiences

ARRK (The Association of Workers of Revolutionary Cinematography),
initially known as ARK (The Association of Revolutionary Cinematography),
was originally intended to be a professional association for the cinema industry
and, despite its increasing politicisation towards the end of the 1920s, it was
not an official censorship organ. Nonetheless, after each discussion of a given
film within the organisation, the leadership of ARRK would pass a resolution
approving it, suggesting possible changes or condemning the work. In practice
ARRK did not have the ultimate power to censor the films and film-makers
did not have to take heed of the body’s proposals; nevertheless, ARRK had
connections with Glavrepertkom and its members occasionally attended
ARRK meetings, which meant that ARRK resolutions could potentially
influence the fate of any particular film.
The organisation of film screenings for workers by ARRK and ODSK
(Society of Friends of Soviet Cinema) allowed members of the general
public the opportunity to play their role in the censorship system. In February
1930, senior members of ARRK gathered to discuss Lev Sheffer’s film
Two Mothers (Dve materi, 1931), which dealt with the issue of child
abandonment and the rights of mothers and women. The director of the
First Moscow Studio had withdrawn the film before even GRK had the
opportunity to examine it. Later, when the question of making changes to
 C ENSORSHIP 57

the film arose, various worker audiences watched the existing version. The
response seems to have been mixed; some heavily criticised the film, others
called for it to be banned, while one worker’s club unanimously agreed
that it should not be banned.5 Eventually, the film remained on the shelf. It
is possible that the negative reactions among workers may have had some
influence on this decision.
Yet the reaction of workers was not always predictable or did not always
correspond to the political views of organisation or cinema administration
heads. In May and August 1930, ODSK arranged viewings of Pavel
Armand’s Ashamed to Say (Stydno skazat, 1930), which dealt with life in the
navy. The film did receive criticisms, such as its failure to show socialist
competition in practice. On the whole though, the film was praised for its
frank references to the illnesses suffered at sea and its clarity on the ‘struggle
for the new reality’. In contrast, Soiuzkino condemned the film as one of
several ‘ideologically harmful movies alien to the proletariat’ that had been
produced by the First Moscow Studio and were subsequently banned.6
This clearly suggests that, generally, the views of workers had little
significance when it came to the final decision on the fate of a film. During
the early 1930s the role of ARRK and ODSK started to decline and, by
the end of 1934, both organisations were effectively finished. This meant
an end to the worker viewings that had taken place in previous years. Indeed,
throughout the 1930s ‘the worker audience’ would be carefully selected to
give its public approval in the official press to films that the Party, government
and cinema administration considered ideal for mass consumption, such
as Chapaev or Lenin in October (Lenin v oktiabre, 1937). Therefore, the possibility
of censorship by the ordinary worker was shortlived.

Studio/Trust Censorship
Censorship at the studio level was imposed in a variety of ways. One of
these was through the introduction in 1929 of Party representatives or
‘cells’ as they became known. Between 1929 and the mid-1930s the
political impact of these cells was rather insignificant. This began to
change in 1933 when the Party cells in the studios gained the right to
discuss film scripts before they went into production. This right was
exercised by the Leningrad studio cell in 1933 when it asked the writers
of the film Friends (Podrugi, 1935) to make some changes to their script
before going into production. Towards the end of the decade the Party
had gained a stronger foothold in the studios. At this stage, the activity of
the Party cells was particularly concerned with ‘educating’ the artistic
58 SOVIET CINEMA

personnel and encouraging them to believe in and become part of the

communist cause. But its censorship function had also become more
noticeable. By the end of the 1930s Party cells and their representatives
became involved in the production process itself, examining filmed material
at different stages of production and offering advice to the film-makers.7
Between 1929 and 1931 the first place for examining script proposals
was the script department of each studio, which could independently
order scripts from writers or take them from the artistic production
department of the main cinema administration, Sovkino and then
Soiuzkino. These departments were not official censorship organs, but
sometimes they rejected scripts on ideological grounds, which meant in
practice they did, to some extent, contribute to political control over Soviet
cinema. The departments predominantly consisted of directors,
scriptwriters, cameramen, critics, writers and cinema journalists. They
would be presented with a basic idea for a script and had to decide whether
or not to pursue the idea. If allowed to proceed, a script would then have
to be passed by the script department before being developed further.
Required changes or rejections were issued on the basis of a range of
factors, including poorly developed central characters, lack of clarity in
plots, or an absence of dramatic skill or tension. Other scripts were
challenged for purely political reasons due to their minimal concern with
social/class conflicts or ideological matters. The script department was
monitored by an artistic bureau which met four times a month, examined
new scripts and could also decide whether or not a project could go ahead.
It regulated the work of the script department and the script workshop,
overseeing its implementation of plans and the type of creative personnel
being attracted to work at a given studio.8
One example of a script rejected on political grounds was Viktor
Gusev’s and Mikhail Romm’s script The Conveyor Belt of Death eventually
made into a film by Ivan Pyrev in 1933 after fourteen changes to the
original scenario. In 1931, however, the first Moscow film studio was
dissatisfied with the script, as it did not show the viewer the ‘difficult but
true path, in this case, towards a global October’. In the early 1930s,
rejection of a script at one studio on political grounds did not necessary
prevent the realisation of an idea. Viktor Shklovsky had presented a script
entitled Home and Community to the same script department in 1930. A
certain Mikhailov rejected the proposal for being too experimental and
for having a Formalist character. During the cultural revolution Mikhailov
felt that ‘such experiments are unjustified’.9 Shklovsky’s script was based
 C ENSORSHIP 59

on Dostoevsky’s Notebooks from the House of the Dead (Zapiski iz mertvogo doma,
1862) and sought to explore the writer’s life using sound in a highly
experimental form. Shklovsky changed the name of the script several
times eventually calling it The House of the Dead (Mertvyi dom, 1932). The
script was rejected on four other occasions. However, in the early to mid-
thirties, the existence of the Mezhrabpomfilm studio still provided an
alternative for writers and film-makers. Despite the public denunciations
of Shklovsky as a Formalist, the studio accepted his script and entrusted
the film to the director Vasili Fyodorov.10 Regardless of measures, such as
the unsuccessful establishment of artistic councils in the studios in 1929,
which were created to improve and monitor the ideological and artistic
quality of scripts and films already in production, the script department
remained, for some time, the most important body responsible for
scrutinising, accepting and rejecting proposals.11 Yet, by 1938, the script
departments had become fully integrated into an endless, centralised system
of official checks which would have to pass through various departments
of the cinema administration as well as the industry chairman.
In the latter part of the 1930s the senior leadership of many of the
Soviet studios began to adopt a stronger censorship role. This type of
censorship was essentially an insurance policy for studio administrators
who knew that the submission of unsound ideological films in a general
atmosphere of condemnation would inevitably lead to dismissals. This
sort of pre-emptive ban took place in all the Soviet republics. In the mid-
1930s the Ukrainian studios had several of their films banned. Some of
these bans came from senior Party organs, but the Ukrainian film Trust,
Ukrainfilm, responsible for the Kiev and Odessa studios, issued its own
bans. One of the most notable cases was that of Abram Room’s A Strict
Youth. On 10 August 1936, Ukrainfilm issued a ban on the film. The film
was forbidden on the basis of its allegedly ‘pretentious’ dialogue on
equality and levelling, its claim that the intelligentsia would wield power
in a future classless society, the suggestion that suffering and the fear of
death are intrinsic to both capitalist and communist societies, its portrayal
of a weak Soviet youth, a central character alien to Soviet reality and a
Formalist deviance from socialist realism.12 As was common, this ban was
a pre-emptive reaction to the campaign against Formalism that had begun
earlier in the year. The trust knew that the Ukrainian film Prometheus had
been used as the first example of Formalism by the authorities in the
1936 campaign. Given the content of A Strict Youth, the trust knew that a
ban was necessary to protect themselves from potentially serious
60 SOVIET CINEMA

ramifications. They also defended their own positions by making a

scapegoat out of and sacking the head of the Kiev studio artistic
production department, Lazurin and other studio administrators, who
were blamed for the production of several ideologically suspect films.
This sort of pre-emptive action on a local level echoes the actions of
central administrators who tried to defend their own positions by
appearing to be the most effective implementers of Bolshevik ideology.
Banning films to defend one’s own position of power, as well communist
ideology, was thus not confined to the upper reaches of power. On the
contrary, such methods of self-defence were applied on every level of the
cinema industry from the local to the central.

The Cinema Administration and its Leaders

In the 1930s the consecutive Soviet cinema administrative bodies and
their chairmen became increasingly involved in the censorship process.
Once again, rigid ideological views played a significant role. As we have
seen, during his years in charge of the industry, Boris Shumiatsky was
personally involved in preventing the release of several films or demanding
changes to many others. This involvement ranged from forcing the director,
Yakov Protazanov, to make a minor change to the end of his film Girl
Without a Dowry (Bespridannitsa, 1936), to outright bans of notable films
such as Ivan Kavaleridze’s Prometheus. In the latter case, Shumiatsky was
behind GUKF’s ban on the film, although he sought Stalin’s approval on
this decision. But Shumiatsky was subject to the same pressures as the
trusts and studios during ideological campaigns which he helped to
generate. Thus, while his stoppage of Eisenstein’s film Bezhin Meadow
during production was clearly based on ideological grounds, it was
inevitable during the purges when criticism against Shumiatsky was
increasing. His successors were subject to similar difficulties. During the
campaign of 1940–1941 against ideologically unreliable films, Ivan
Bolshakov was forced to stop the production of seven films under
enormous pressure from above.13 Thus while men such as Shumiatsky
and Bolshakov were committed Bolsheviks and often imposed bans on
the basis of their own narrow political views, self-preservation was always
an important motivating factor.

The Orgburo
From the mid-1930s other agencies became more involved in censorship.
As we have seen, many of the official government decrees pointed to a
 C ENSORSHIP 61

gradual development of ideological control over the industry. Nonetheless,

in the spring of 1933, the Party’s Orgburo of the Central Committee
established a new centralised cinema commission, which was intended to
control all film projects from the early script and thematic stages through
to the production and release. On 7 July 1933 the Orgburo issued its own
decree establishing the membership of the new commission. It included
the head of Agitprop, Alexei Stetsky, as its chairman, several Party
ideologues, including Andrei Bubnov and Sergei Dinamov as well as the
head of the cinema industry, Boris Shumiatsky. The decree stated that
‘not one theme can be put into production without the prior sanction of
the Central Committee and not one film can be released without being
viewed by this commission’. The decree also instructed the Central
Committee’s Kultprop department to select a group of Party writers and
propagandists to review scripts.14
The new Orgburo cinema commission was an extremely powerful
censorship organ, providing a strong ideological ingredient to accompany
the government’s central concern with the economic development of the
cinema industry. Its main functions were to give approval to scripts, to
demand changes to scripts or films already in production and to ban
completed films that were considered to be ideologically or artistically
defective. Furthermore, due to the rather slow changeover of cinema
administration from Soiuzkino to GUKF, the commission adopted other
functions, such as compilation and amendment of studios’ thematic plans
as well as the summoning of film-makers to discuss potential projects
and necessary changes to certain films.15
In its short life of just over one and a half years, the cinema commission
actively examined scripts. Sometimes the commission would ask film-
makers to make changes before allowing ideas to reach the production
stage. Such changes ranged from the demand for entire sections to be
removed to more minor alterations concerning, for example, the title of
a given film. In terms of outright bans of potential scripts or finished
products, the commission acted in a relatively restrained manner. It did
reject some scripts and ban several films, including a proposed script for
a film entitled Chameleon (Khameleon, 1934) written for Yakov Protazanov
and Lev Kuleshov’s Theft of Sight (Krazha zreniia, 1934).
The Orgburo’s cinema commission was often ineffective at taking on
board the aim of the ‘cinema for the millions’ agenda and, as a result,
came into conflict with Shumiatsky’s cinema administration. On 28 July
1934, Shumiatsky wrote a letter to Stalin complaining that members of
62 SOVIET CINEMA

the cinema commission, including Bubnov and Antipov, had described

the film The Happy Guys as ‘counterrevolutionary’, ‘worthless’, ‘hooligan’
in nature and ‘insincere throughout’. Members of the commission
demanded that entire parts of the film be cut. Once again the Bolshevik
impulse to attack popular entertainment films threatened the release of
yet another film. GRK, now under Bubnov’s control, had also seized
parts of the film bound for an international film festival. Shumiatsky,
who knew that Stalin approved of the film, asked for him to intervene.
The ban was subsequently lifted and the film was released.16 This is one of
a few examples where Shumiatsky managed to defend his own position of
power as well as the entertainment element in the ‘cinema for the millions’
agenda. Nonetheless, this was becoming an increasingly difficult task.

Kultpros
Stalin’s dislike of the Orgburo cinema commission may not have only
been because he regarded it as a rival to his own censorship authority. It
also seems likely that Stalin simply did not trust the members of the
commission. It is noteworthy that most of the commission’s key members,
including Stetsky, Bubnov, Dinamov and Kosior were all executed within
a few years. On 25 December 1934, the Politburo decided to liquidate
the commission, handing over the duties of thematic plan and script
guidance, as well as decisions on film release, to the Central Committee’s
Kultprosvetrabota (cultural and enlightenment work) department. The
evidence suggests that Stalin instigated the move, and Stetsky gave his
official support (not having much choice), but one of Stalin’s close
associates, Andrei Zhdanov, played an important supporting role in
drafting the decree.17 This shift of political control over cinema was highly
significant, as Zhdanov would become an increasingly influential figure
towards the end of the decade.
The reorganisation of Party censorship over cinema into Kultpros
was intended to tighten ideological control, yet its functions were largely
the same as the Orgburo’s cinema commission. The new body took the
defence of Soviet history and its leaders to new levels. In January 1937, it
banned the release of Yuli Raizman’s The Last Night (Posledniaia noch, 1937)
due to the fact that the film did not show the ‘role of Stalin in the struggle
for October’. The Kultpros department was distressed that ‘Stalin’s name
was not even mentioned’ in the film. The body decreed that the movie
could not be released in its current form and that GUK should think
about possible changes to the film, given that the administration was
 C ENSORSHIP 63

responsible for the movie’s ‘defects’.18 The film’s January release was
delayed until 2 March 1937, when it appeared on screens throughout the
USSR. But, during the intervening period, it is clear that Raizman made
minimal changes to the film. The final cut included no material on Stalin’s
role in the October Revolution or even a mention of his name at an
opportune moment. The difficulty of making changes to this film was
that it could not be done easily. The point of The Last Night was to tell the
story of the Revolution through the eyes of ordinary people rather than
glorified leaders and thus any attempt to introduce the Bolshevik elite
would have necessitated a serious structural change or indeed a complete
remaking of the film. Nonetheless, this was a warning that censorship
was now taking the matter of protecting political mythology to extremes.
The obsession with Stalin and other Bolshevik leaders appearing in Soviet
feature films, which they often did in the late 1930s, showed that
revolutionary political megalomania had reached almost comical levels
and that the claims of blending entertainment with politics were
increasingly difficult to substantiate.

Stalin as the Censor-in-Chief

Stalin’s public references to the role of cinema were quite rare. Yet, if we
go beyond his political pronouncements, we find that during his long period
as the leader of the USSR, Stalin did in fact show an unusually strong
interest in cinema. To some extent, this interest was based on a personal
desire for light entertainment. Stalin would finish work at eleven or twelve
o’clock at night, often after lengthy Politburo meetings, and would frequently
ask the head of the cinema industry if they had something ‘cheerful’ for
him to watch. The chief administrator would usually bring a selection of
two or three films, including new Soviet product or a foreign film. In the
early 1930s Stalin, alongside other members of the Politburo, watched the
films at the cinema administration headquarters on Malyi Gnezdnikovsky
Lane near the Kremlin. By the middle of the decade a luxuriously appointed
small cinema had been installed on the first floor of the Kremlin Palace.
The viewings and subsequent discussions were lavished with Georgian wines
and snacks, and would last until two or three o’clock in the morning.
However, the significance of these viewings went far beyond Stalin’s wish
to be entertained after work. They became a central part of the Soviet
system for the control of film output. In effect Stalin became the chief
censor for the industry. During the 1930s Stalin proposed ideas for films.
He sometimes demanded that specific changes were made to verbal or
64 SOVIET CINEMA

visual aspects of movies, and gave his approval to many films; he also banned
certain films, which he judged to be unsuitable for mass consumption.19
The earliest record of Stalin’s involvement in determining film content
can be traced as far back as 1927. During the final editing of Sergei
Eisenstein’s October (Oktiabr, 1927), Stalin allegedly told the director that,
given the efforts of the Trotskyite opposition to fight against Soviet power,
the scenes showing Trotsky’s involvement in the October Revolution would
have to be cut. Eisenstein cut three scenes featuring Trotsky while two others
were re-edited.20 Notwithstanding this early intervention, Stalin only really
became a consistent censor of films in the early to mid-1930s. In 1933, the
young Leningrad-based directors Alexander Zarkhi and Joseph Kheifits
completed their film My Homeland (Moia rodina). The film, which tells of the
coming to class consciousness of a young Chinese man, was released on
the 23 February 1933. Initially, the film was received very well by the cinema
industry, including Boris Shumiatsky and the press. Nevertheless, in late
March the film was banned by GRK. Then on 3 April 1933, the newspaper
Pravda publicly announced the ban. One of Stalin’s projectionists recalled
how, after watching the film, he heard Stalin dictate to Kaganovich: ‘write
this down…the film My Homeland is to be banned as harmful’. The Pravda
article repeated Stalin’s words, indicating that he was the main source of
the change in attitude towards the film and its ban. Stalin was not satisfied
with the depiction of the Red Army in the film. It is highly probable that
My Homeland was the first film that Stalin himself banned outright.21
One of the most remarkable cases of Stalin’s involvement concerns
the film Shchors (1939), directed by Alexander Dovzhenko. The relationship
between Stalin and Dovzhenko can be traced back to 1928 after the release
of the director’s film Arsenal. Stalin liked the film but the Ukrainian
authorities thought otherwise and began to harass Dovzhenko. The
situation deteriorated after the release of Earth (Zemlia, 1930) and Ivan
(1932), which were heavily criticised and, by this stage, Dovzhenko was
in danger of arrest. However, Stalin played his part in preventing this
and convincing Dovzhenko to move to Moscow in 1933. From this point
on, Stalin formally became a protective father figure/teacher to
Dovzhenko who would meet the leader more often than any other film-
maker in the Soviet Union.22 Stalin recognised Dovzhenko’s talent and
exploited the director’s position of obligation to the leader by compelling
him to make political films in support of the communist system. After
Dovzhenko completed Aerograd (1935), Stalin proposed the idea of making
a Ukrainian Chapaev to the director, based on the civil war commander
 C ENSORSHIP 65

Nikolai Shchors. In 1937 Dovzhenko recalled how Stalin told him that
the project was merely a proposal:

You are a free man. If you want to make Shchors, do so – but, if

you have other plans, do something else. Don’t be embarrassed. I
summoned you so that you should know this.23

Given that Stalin had already saved Dovzhenko from the wrath of the
Ukrainian police, the leader clearly expected that the director would make
the film. Predictably, Dovzhenko carried out Stalin’s proposal. Nevertheless,
after researching his new theme, Dovzhenko found that Shchors was less
of a heroic figure than Stalin believed or wanted him to be. Consequently,
after watching Dovzhenko’s first attempt at the film, Stalin wrote a letter to
Shumiatsky pointing to several shortcomings in the movie:

Comrade Shumiatsky!
1) Shchors has turned out rather crude and uncultivated. You
need to restore Shchors’s true physiognomy.
2) Bozhenko did not entirely work out. The writer, clearly,
sympathises more with Bozhenko than with Shchors.
3) Shchors’s military staff is not visible. Why?
4) It cannot be that Shchors did not have a tribunal, in either
event, he would not have begun to shoot people for no reason
(the snuff box and so on).
5) It is not good that Shchors looks less cultivated and cruder than
Chapaev. This is not natural.
J. Stalin 9/7/36.24
These examples reveal the extent to which Stalin became involved in not
only censoring, but also, sometimes, making his own contributions to films.
Throughout the 1930s Stalin demanded changes and additions to a whole
series of films, including documentaries, placing him at the centre of the
censorship process.
However, while the extent of Stalin’s involvement in examining films
was unusually high, there has been a general tendency to regard Stalin as
an all-seeing-eye, capable of exercising complete, efficient control over
the cinema industry and its films. This has led to the unjustified assumption
that Stalin was always in control of the content of every film. It is important
to point out that Stalin’s control over cinema was not complete or
systematic. There were many examples of controversial films that were
66 SOVIET CINEMA

released for one or several weeks before Stalin had seen them. As we have
seen, the film My Homeland was on release for several weeks before Stalin
saw and banned it. Ivan Kavaleridze’s Prometheus was shown in Leningrad
for one week before Shumiatsky showed the film to Stalin, who agreed that
it should be banned due to its alleged historical distortions on its depiction
of the Caucasus battles of the 19th century. Mikhail Dubson’s Large Wings
was on general release for nearly three weeks before being withdrawn from
cinemas due to its ‘difficult’ content about an aircraft designer who witnesses
the crash of one of his own planes and then attempts to commit suicide,
but lives on and continues to work with the support of the father of one of
the crash victims. Finally, Alexander Stolper and Boris Ivanov’s The Law of
Life (Zakon zhizni), an essentially anti-communist film, was on release for ten
days before hastily being withdrawn due to its depiction of a depoliticised
fun-loving Soviet youth who are less than interested in Marxism.25 It is
clear that Stalin did not see these films before their release, indicating that
it was not considered essential that films should always initially be passed
by the leader. When the head of cinema brought films to him for viewing,
he tended to select the best of industry product. This was more about
entertaining Stalin than asking for approval on each and every film. So, in
effect, there were many cases where thousands of spectators were given the
opportunity to watch films that either challenged or did not fit into the
Party vision of Soviet cinema.
Nonetheless, while it is important that we take into account the
limitations of Stalin’s censorship role, we must acknowledge the fact that,
overall, his influence on Soviet film was disproportionately high. Again
when we look at the content of his decisions, it is evident that the leader
himself was also motivated by a mentality of protecting and defending the
politically sacred. His desire to see Shchors portrayed in the same heroic
light as Chapaev did not merely reflect a wish for Soviet cinema to produce
effective propaganda. Stalin and most of his Bolshevik comrades genuinely
believed in the greatness of Bolshevik heroism as part of the struggle to
achieve the communist paradise. It is thus unsurprising that in every decision
Stalin made on changing film content, there is a strong sense that the material
does live up to some form of political perfection or unwavering greatness.

The Politburo of the Central Committee

The Party’s senior policy-making body, the Politburo of the Central
Committee also played its role in the censorship process. As with many
of the other institutions that we have looked at, the Politburo could both
 C ENSORSHIP 67

demand changes to films as well as imposing bans on them. In 1934 it

issued a decree requiring the cinema administration to impose a series of
changes to the documentary film Cheliuskin (1934). Three years later it
decreed an official ban on Sergei Eisenstein’s film Bezhin Meadow. In fact
the Politburo was simply issuing decrees on behalf of Central Committee
members who had responsibility for cinema or other individuals and Party
organs. Stalin was responsible for the demand to make changes to Cheliuskin
while Bezhin Meadow had effectively already been banned, following Boris
Shumiatsky’s measure. The role of these occasional Politburo decrees
was to give censorship decisions more authority than, say, an Orgburo or
Kultpros decree may have had.26
The Politburo also issued decrees which established film monitoring
commissions. For example, the establishment of a new commission in
August 1940 was a clear reaction to events that had taken place earlier in
the month. On 7 August 1940, Alexander Stolper and Boris Ivanov’s
film The Law of Life was released throughout the RSFSR. The film was
advertised in the general and cinema press as a film ‘about the love and
friendship of Soviet youth’. It was in fact a film that criticised communist
ideology and exposed the traditionally respected Komsomol secretary
figure as corrupt and immoral. The release of the film revealed just how
ineffective the elaborate system of censorship could be. The film passed
through all the necessary checks, including the then head of the cinema
commission and the judge responsible for sending many Old Bolsheviks
to their deaths, Andrei Vyshinsky. The film also received approval from
all the relevant departments of the cinema committee and its leader Ivan
Bolshakov, as well as being accepted by the studio where it was made,
Mosfilm. The work was only withdrawn on the tenth day of its release
after an article appeared in the newspaper Pravda, condemning it as an
‘insincere film’. Subsequently, the Cinema Committee declared an official
ban on the movie, which was then withdrawn from all theatres.27
As we have noted, flaws in the system of censorship were a constant
feature during the previous decade. However, the fact that a film with strong
anti-Soviet content had been both produced and released provoked a swift
defensive reaction from the Party’s ideologues. The subsequent appointment
of Andrei Zhdanov to the cinema commission was evidently a reaction to
Vyshinsky’s blunder. From this point Zhdanov led a campaign to rid cinema
of ideologically suspect films. Between the autumn of 1940 and the summer
of 1941 Zhdanov’s cinema commission banned at least 17 feature films,
most of which were considered to be politically defective in some way.
68 SOVIET CINEMA

Although censorship increased in the form of a series of reactions

during the 1930s, certain types of ideologically protective decisions
followed a similar pattern. As we have seen, among the most common
reasons for films failing to live up to Bolshevik standards was the problem
of supposedly trivial content. The consequence of this viewpoint was
that many perfectly well-made films were caught up in the effort to make
politics prevail over entertainment. Indeed, this anti-trivial motivation
remained as strong as it had ever been by the end of the decade. A good
illustration of this is one of the major films victimised by the ideological
campaign which followed after The Law of Life. The Hearts of Four (Serdtsa
chetyrekh, 1940), directed by Konstantin Yudin, was a benign romantic
comedy banned by the Central Committee. Andrei Zhdanov was behind
the ban and his assessment of the film sums up the extent to which the
Bolsheviks were suspicious of popular entertainment:
These attempts to amuse the public by means of falling in the
water, splashing water in the face from wine glasses and so on. All
these simple tricks are very trivial, they cannot rouse, they cannot
inculcate enthusiasm. Then there is the general background of
the comedy – in the film they love one another, then there is a
change of roles – one loves another, then two are in love with the
sister, then the roles change – this theme is fairly familiar and well
known, and pretty well worn.28

The main characters from the film The Hearts of Four (1941).
 C ENSORSHIP 69

Zhdanov’s comments were soon followed by a Central Committee

decree which banned the release of the film. The decree claimed that
the film failed to ‘reflect Soviet reality, depicting the life of Soviet people
as an idle, frivolous pastime’.29 As a result of the Bolshevik obsession
with civilising the masses, many potentially popular films were banned.
Indeed, the censors’ lack of flexibility in deciding what could and could
not be shown was a tactical mistake. Films, such as The Hearts of Four,
would have given the mass viewer both entertainment and a strong
sense that everyday life in the USSR was perhaps more joyous than
they thought.

Conclusion
The censorship regime enforced on Soviet cinema from 1929 onwards
became more and more elaborate. After beginning with the official body
GRK, censorship then developed a much more draconian character as
special commissions and Stalin himself began to scrutinise scripts and
films on a more regular basis. The most fundamental goal of censorship
was to remove scripts or films that, even in the slightest way, challenged,
questioned or ignored the Soviet view of reality in the 1930s or the
ideological goals of communism. Such a goal was central to the
legitimisation of that reality and those political ideals. We have seen
that between 1929 and 1941 the censorship enacted by a whole range
of agencies was sometimes very inconsistent and lacking in the
ideological purpose outlined at the Party Conference on Cinema in
1928. We have also pointed out that, despite the terrible impact of
censorship and its apparent ruthlessness, none of the mechanisms of
control were as watertight as is often assumed. But the consequence of
gaps in the net, however small, was the constant increase in ideological
defensiveness year after year. The 1930s saw persistent institutional
changes in terms of how censorship was controlled and each perceived
failure at closing the ideological net simply helped reinforce the defence
mechanisms. Moreover, we have argued that, this defensiveness
manifested itself in the decisions themselves, Soviet film censorship was
built upon the unstable foundations of Bolshevik insecurity and this
was reflected in the patronising condemnation of popular entertainment
movies and the simultaneous praise of Bolshevik heroes and leaders.
The eventual result of reactions on institutional, collective and individual
levels was that censorship played a big role, along with the other
contributing factors, in undermining the very goal set out for Soviet
70 SOVIET CINEMA

cinema in the late 1920s: to reach the masses effectively through a wide
variety of well-produced films that carefully combined entertainment
and politics.
 71

CHAPTER 3

THE PURGES

T
he question of how violence and the purges affected Soviet cinema
between the late 1920s and the end of the 1930s remains an area
of research that has received relatively little treatment. Work carried
out over the last twenty years has provided us with some idea of who the
main victims were, especially between 1936 and 1938, and the reasoning
behind their arrests. Nonetheless, post-Soviet Russian accounts of the
purges do not make a distinction between the early and later purges and
often assume that they always achieved their goals.1 We still lack a more
empirical account, particularly of the period between 1929 and 1936,
which might provide us with a better understanding of the real impact of
the purges over these years. This chapter will attempt to address this issue
and will also seek to identify some of the victims of the purges who,
despite their importance for the Soviet film industry, have been omitted
from previous accounts. Moreover, it will try to establish a more detailed
understanding of the circumstances surrounding these arrests and, in some
cases, executions.
In this chapter it shall be argued that, with regard to the most significant
artistic and administrative victims, the purges that took place between
1929 and 1936 had a limited impact. The cinema industry, which was in
desperate need of qualified and experienced personnel, saw a recycling
of specialists and adaptation to new conditions rather than a genuine
purge. During the Great Terror the purges in cinema were much more
ruthless and the number of arrests and executions escalated. By the late
1930s there was a backlash against the foreign influence in the cinema
industry consistent with the Bolshevik defensive outlook. Film-makers
and administrators were especially targeted for their foreign connections
and their enthusiasm for a ‘Soviet Hollywood’. The later purges thus
72 SOVIET CINEMA

represented an attempt to ensure that the film industry remained truly

Soviet from the principles of central planning to the content of its
films.

The Earlier Purges of Cinema, 1929–1936

The height of the early purges coincided with the ‘cultural revolution’
which began in 1928. The cultural revolution was essentially a form of
revolutionary zeal whereby genuine socialism would at last be introduced
to replace the relative cultural pluralism of the 1920s. In the cinema
industry this involved a struggle against perceived class enemies and
‘bourgeois’ specialists, and a concerted effort to enable workers and
peasants to occupy all the significant artistic and administrative posts.
One of the central methods of achieving this would be the purging of
‘undesirable’ elements from their positions. While these purges reached a
high point during 1929–1931, they continued over the next few years
propelled by broader political events, such as the Kirov murder in 1934,
which would eventually escalate into the Great Terror of 1936–1938.
At first glance it might seem that the purge commissions of the earlier
years were fairly thorough in their scrutiny and actions within Soviet
cinema organisations. The procedure for each commission would be to
spend several days in a studio or factory to examine the production process,
assessing the extent to which orders were being carried out. Every
department or branch of the cinema organisation would be covered, from
the production department to the accounts section. Individuals would be
questioned and asked to fill in forms about their background. The
commission would then establish areas that were ‘lagging behind’, before
proceeding with a purge of the organisation in these areas.2 In the years
1929–1936 purges included a whole series of possible sanctions that could
be taken against cinema personnel. These measures were fairly similar to
those applied across the board to all the affected organisations. Perceived
class enemies could be arrested, imprisoned, exiled, sent to labour camps
or shot, although executions, as we shall see, were not the norm in the
early years and the Gulag system was not commonly filled with cinema
personnel at this time. Those who were Party members had their cards
withdrawn which was tantamount to expulsion.
Such expulsion could also lead to the loss of employment and source
of income, their homes, and the cessation of certain civil rights, such as
the right to vote. During 1929–1936 the majority of personnel, especially
artistic figures, were not members of the Communist Party. Although
 T HE PURGES 73

this meant that they had no Party card to lose, they were still subject to all
the other aforementioned measures.
The purges were ongoing during the 1930s. However, it is important
to distinguish between the earlier and later periods. It is true that some
figures, either directly working in cinema or at least associated with it,
experienced terrible lasting hardships resulting from repressive measures
taken in the years before 1936. One important administrative figure
arrested in 1930 was Martemian Riutin, the short-lived chairman of
Soiuzkino who had been appointed by Stalin. Riutin was a fairly outspoken
figure who criticised the leader and, it appears, had a disagreement with
him at his dacha in Sochi in the autumn of 1930. Stalin ordered Riutin’s
arrest and the cinema leader was arrested after returning from a holiday
in October of that year. A Soiuzkino directive confirming his dismissal
from the post of chairman appeared on 23 October. Harsh punishments
and shootings were far rarer in 1930 than in 1937, however, and Riutin
was released. In 1932 Riutin became involved in the production and
distribution of an anti-Stalinist programme among members of the
Central Committee in which he accused Stalin of destroying the
Revolution in favour of his drive for personal power. For this Riutin spent
over four years in prison, before eventually being executed in 1937.3
A further instance of an earlier purge, this time of artistic figures
working in cinema, is the case of Alexander Gavronsky, a less well-known
director with a theatrical background. Gavronsky, who was from a wealthy
Moscow family, had studied in Switzerland before returning to work in
his home city, initially in various Moscow theatres and then, after 1927,
as a film director. Certainly, his period abroad would not have helped his
cause, yet the central reason for his arrest on 4 January 1934 seems to
have been his openly anti-Soviet beliefs. In 1931 the OGPU (Joint State
Political Directorate) made a note of Gavronsky’s comments that the
country was in a dreadful state and cinema personnel were losing
motivation due to the demand for the same themes of class struggle and
the glory of the Party. Gavronsky described his latest film The Dark Reign
(Temnoe tsarstvo, 1931) as a counterrevolutionary work. Following his arrest
in 1934, Gavronsky spent nearly 25 years in the Komi camps. He was
released only at the end of 1957 due to ill health and died three months
later.4
Nikolai Erdman, who was arrested along with Vladimir Mass, his co-
author of The Happy Guys on the set of that film along with another writer,
Emil German, had become increasingly involved in scriptwriting for Soviet
74 SOVIET CINEMA

films. The men were arrested on 11 October 1933, for the ‘dissemination
of counterrevolutionary literary works’ and were all sentenced to three
years’ exile in grim Siberian outposts. In particular, Erdman was forced
to confess that he was the author of a series of ‘anti-Soviet and erotic
fables’ for which he had deliberately organised distribution in Moscow
and other towns. After his sentence, Erdman was released but was not
allowed to live permanently in Moscow until 1949. Despite this formal
restriction, Erdman resumed his career as a cinema scriptwriter. Along
with Mikhail Volpin, Erdman wrote Volga Volga (1938) and The Old Jockey
(Staryi naezdnik, 1940), as well as many other successful scripts in subsequent
years. During the war he even worked as a literary consultant for the
NKVD ensemble of Song and Dance.5
However, it is true to say that, on the whole, the earlier purges were
different in method and outcome from those of 1936–1938 and were
hugely different in terms of the number of cinema personnel who were
to fall victim. The typical victims of the early purges were often
administrative heads of departments, who would be considered
responsible for poor performance in their given area. At Mezhrabpomfilm
in 1929 it was declared that Vladimir Shveitser, the head of the script
department, was to be sacked by order of local Party and political control
organs for being ‘improvident’ and for forming a union with ‘anti-Soviet
elements’. Also at Mezhrabpomfilm the well-known actor Porfiri Podobed
was under secret police observation as a potential ‘enemy of the people’.
Yet both men were left alone and pursued successful careers in the industry
working with key directors such as Yakov Protazanov and Konstantin
Eggert.6 Secret police and purge commission indecisiveness was also
evident during the initial purge of Sovkino in July 1929. A purge
commission complained that, despite its decrees on the dismissal of Goldin
(the head of the trade section) and Bufeev (the head of sales), neither
man was dismissed and the departments in question were suffering as a
result.7
The indecisiveness of the purge commissions and the secret police in
cinema up until 1936 is more clearly illustrated in the case of a higher-
profile purge victim. Mikhail Doller had worked in cinema since 1923
and became known for his work as assistant to Vsevolod Pudovkin on the
films Mother (Mat, 1926) and The End of Saint Petersburg (Konets Sankt-
Peterburga, 1927). In 1929 he was caught up in the campaign to rid cinema
of the class enemy. On 8 July 1929 Doller wrote a letter to the
administration of Mezhrabpomfilm, indicating that he had been accused
 T HE PURGES 75

of selecting class enemies to work on a recent film project and that Doller
knew the individuals in question as well as their social origins. Doller
described the accusation as a ‘complete lie’, pointing out that he selected
the personnel for purely artistic reasons.8
On 26 August 1929 the Mezhrabpomfilm administration responded
to Doller’s plea for help with a letter to the secretary of the Krasnaia
Presnia district committee in Moscow, concerning the position of Doller
and two other workers. The letter noted that while Doller’s removal had
already been decreed, there would be dire consequences, in terms of film
completion, if the committee did not reconsider its decision on the
production of Pudovkin’s latest ‘highly responsible’ film. The OGPU gave
in to the pleas and Doller rejoined the film crew in September 1929.9
Yet, despite the worrying situation Doller found himself in, the attempt
to purge him was not renewed. In fact Doller went on to lead an apparently
normal career in film throughout the somewhat abnormal 1930s, working
as a co-director with Pudovkin on all of his major productions. Ironically,
a Soviet cinema encyclopaedia later described the main talent of Doller
as his ‘ability to form an actors’ ensemble and select types for films’.10
Although artistic personnel were victimised in the early period of
purges and later during the period of the Great Purge, administrative
personnel were often given more attention by the secret police. In 1929
Moisei Aleinikov, the director of Mezhrabpomfilm, was stripped of his
voting rights ‘as a former participant of the artistic collective “Rus”’. As
with Doller, Aleinikov refused to accept the decision and wrote a letter to
the Central Electoral Commission pointing out that the artistic collective
‘Rus’ was not of a capitalist nature, and had a sound ideological ethos
that served as ‘a powerful weapon of propaganda of our cinema in the
West’.11 In March 1930, Aleinikov, along with other senior administrators,
was purged from his directorial position at Mezhrabpomfilm and regarded
as a class enemy who had no place in Soviet cinema. Nonetheless,
Aleinikov was clearly valued too much by figures within the industry,
who directly defied their political masters. In 1931 a commission on the
purge of Soiuzkino expressed indignation that Aleinikov, ‘removed from
Mezhrabpomfilm for carrying out an ideologically harmful policy and
producing films for the petty bourgeoisie and capitalists of the west’, had
subsequently received a senior position as the deputy leader of the
production department of sound cinema at Soiuzkino. Indeed, Aleinikov’s
deputy, Grigori Arustanov, was also purged at the same time, yet he too
was able to re-establish himself at the Azerkino studio in Baku where he
76 SOVIET CINEMA

had worked in the 1920s.12 Subsequently, far from being ousted once
more, Aleinikov was to maintain a strong and respected influence in
Soiuzkino and Soviet cinema generally and even headed commissions
investigating production problems at Soiuzkino’s first film factory.13
Aleinikov seemed to be able to adapt to changing and difficult
circumstances, channelling his pre-Revolutionary commercial approach
into the ‘cinema for the millions’ of the 1930s.14
A further interesting example reveals how it was possible for leading
industry figures to survive at this time. Anatoli Danashevsky, a reputable
administrator at Soiuzkino in charge of the building of the future Mosfilm
studio, was accused of sabotage and sentenced to execution in June 1931.
On hearing of Danashevsky’s arrest, the American writer Upton Sinclair
wrote a letter to Stalin in which he defended Danashevsky as a man
committed to Soviet cinema and the USSR. Stalin replied to Sinclair,
stating: ‘If you insist, I can apply for amnesty to the senior government
body’. After Stalin’s request, the Politburo made a recommendation to the
OGPU to release Danashevsky and send him out of the USSR, as he had
originally come from America. However, the secret police were, again, more
lenient in practice and Danashevsky was permitted to stay in the Soviet
Union. He continued to work in cinema and soon became director of the
Belgoskino studio. Danashevsky died in 1935 from an unrelated illness.15

The Purges of ARRK, ODSK and the Cinema Institute

ARK was an organisation of professional film-makers, administrators
and journalists established in February 1924. In the organisation’s founding
declaration, the members emphasised the society’s fundamental role in
creating a revolutionary cinema to ‘meet the ideological and artistic needs
of the proletariat’.16 In reality there was much ambiguity as to what
constituted ‘a revolutionary cinema’. Over half of the association’s
membership was composed of Communist Party members, nevertheless,
the organisation was characterised by a pluralism of political and artistic
views until the late 1920s. The association’s reputation as a home of debate
and argument exposed it to increasing attacks from critics who supported
the narrow proletarianisation programme of the forthcoming cultural
revolution.17 Indeed, in a superficial effort to prove its proletarian
credentials, the organisation was renamed ARRK (see above) in 1928.
Nonetheless, by mid-1929 it was clear that ARRK would soon be subjected
to the politically motivated purges that were taking place throughout the
industry.
 T HE PURGES 77

It must be pointed out that exclusions were not an unusual

phenomenon for other reasons. Many members of ARRK, including
Vsevolod Pudovkin, Ivan Pyrev and Abram Room, were excluded for
simply failing to pay their membership fees or for lack of activity.18 The
main purges of ARRK did not begin until 1930. However, the first targets
were picked out towards the end of 1929. Vladimir Sillov who was the
head of the script section of ARRK and a consultant at Sovkino was
accused of being a Formalist and for harbouring a condescending attitude
towards Boris Svetozarov’s film Tanka the Bar Girl (Tanka traktirshchitsa, 1929)
and mass taste in general. Despite Sillov’s efforts to repent, and his
description of Formalism as ‘reactionary’, he was purged from the
organisation.19 However, Sillov’s position became more serious as he was
arrested by the OGPU in January 1930 then, on 13 February 1930, he
was sentenced to execution on the basis of alleged spying and
counterrevolutionary propaganda. Later that year a lesser-known director
and journalist, Anatoli Ardatov, was also given a death sentence based on
similar counterrevolutionary charges, and in early 1931, Anton Pazin, an
artist based at Vostokfilm, was arrested and, three years later, he was
executed on the grounds of spying.20 The Sillov, Ardatov and Pazin cases
show that, while executions were less common for cinema industry figures
at this time, they did take place.
Further purges began in February 1930 and the process continued
until the end of April, yet they made a relatively minor impact on the
organisation. The fact that these early purges of ARRK were mild was
confirmed by renewed attacks on the organisation that appeared in the
cinema press in the summer of that year, accusing the body of defending
Formalism and its theoreticians. This led to a further purge in November
and December of 1930. In January 1931, an ARRK meeting was called
to discuss the conclusions of the purge commission. Although the work
of the commission was subject to some criticism, the gathering concluded
that the purge had broadly been effective. On this occasion the purge
had been far more rigorously implemented. Of the 428 members 40 per
cent had been removed from the organisation. Those purged included a
large number of actors, who were considered to be especially inactive
and alien to the organisation’s proletarian ethos.21 Again though, the effect
on careers was limited. For instance, Antonina Kudriavsteva was among
the many actors purged from the organisation in 1930. This did not
prevent her from establishing a career at Lenfilm as one of the leading
directors of children’s films during the 1930s. Indeed, the main overall
78 SOVIET CINEMA

effect of the ARRK purges was not the strengthening of its communist
credentials. The organisation never achieved its goal of attracting a strong
proletarian membership. Instead, the purges simply weakened the body
and helped to facilitate its subsequent demise.
As well as directors, such as Boris Svetozarov, who still managed to
forge a career in documentary film, the purges also affected cinema
journalists who were closely associated with ARRK, including Mikhail
Shneider who also lost his job as editor of the cinema journal Kino-Front,
Ippolit Sokolov, Khrisanf Khersonsky and the writer and critic Viktor
Shklovsky.22 Yet the purges failed permanently to remove any of these
important figures from the cinema industry. Shneider and Sokolov
continued to work as journalists in the area of cinema, albeit less frequently
than in the 1920s. Khersonsky continued to work as a respected critic in
the 1930s. Nonetheless, his ability to survive was undoubtedly eased by
his willingness to please the leadership. For instance, after writing an article
in Izvestiia criticising the model Soviet film Chapaev, Khersonsky was
attacked by Stalin and other Party leaders. Subsequently, the critic wrote
a letter to the editor of Pravda apologising for his ‘mistake’. In particular,
Khersonsky suggested that he ought to have offered a better account of
the ‘merits of this beautiful film’ as Pravda had done.23 Viktor Shklovsky
followed a similar ‘safe’ path, opting for cautious regime-friendly articles
and scripts.
ODSK was the least affected cinema organisation during the purges
of the late 1920s and early 1930s. The society was intended as a means
of drawing the masses in to Soviet cinema through the organisation of
lectures, discussions, film viewings and so on. By 1929 the body had
become increasingly subject to the criticism that it was failing to fulfil its
function. In 1930 an editorial article in the journal Kino i zhizn (Cinema
and Life) attacked ODSK for failing to develop a clear political line. The
author also accused the organisation of not fulfilling its main function of
mobilising the worker and peasant masses in the factories and the fields.24
Despite these criticisms, ODSK was never purged as such. As a result of
its weakness, ODSK was not perceived as a political threat, therefore,
when demands for change were made, they focused on the need for
reorganisation rather than the removal of leaders or members. By 1932
ODSK was receiving increasingly less attention in the cinema press and
the organisation only survived until 1934 when it was formally liquidated.
One of the more significant victims of the early purges was the director
of the Cinema Institute, S.S. Lialina, who, along with other right-wing
 T HE PURGES 79

opportunists in the body’s Party organisation, was dismissed. 25

Paradoxically, though the often limited impact that the early purges had
on cinema was particularly evident in the lecturer composition at the
Cinema Institute. If we look at the individuals employed by the institute
during the early purges and beyond, we find a series of controversial
figures. They included Sergei Eisenstein, the head of the director’s faculty
from 1932. By now he was seen as a Formalist with foreign connections
and sympathies after his journey to Europe and America. In the early
1930s Lev Kuleshov, regarded as a class enemy and no longer permitted
to make films, joined Eisenstein, as did the equally controversial Abram
Room. Vladimir Nilsen, who had spent three years in exile following
suspicion over his foreign connections, as well as Eduard Tisse, Eisenstein’s
artistic colleague, were central to the development of the cameraman
faculty in the mid-1930s. Mikhail Shneider, who had been purged from
cinema journalism as a Formalist, managed to find refuge in the Institute’s
new film studies faculty in the early 1930s. It simply did not make sense
to completely rid the cinema industry of perceived class enemies. Skills
and experience were in short supply at this time. It is therefore unsurprising
that these individuals maintained a strong foothold in film.
As indicated above, it would be incorrect to conclude that the earlier
purges had no impact whatsoever. The arrest and executions of Sillov,
Ardatov and Pazin would contradict such an assertion. Moreover, the
early purges also affected a few ordinary people working in the broader
industry. These included Viktor Engels, a photographer based at a film
laboratory in Tbilisi, Yevgeni Brokman, a clerical worker at Soiuzkino,
Stepan Lebedev, a nightwatchman at Soiuzkino, Vasili Nefedov, a cinema
theatre director, Stepan Stroganov, a cinema theatre administrator, Ivan
Sidorenko, a deputy director of a major Moscow cinema theatre, Nikita
Sidorov, a boiler-man at the studio for defence and educational films and,
Konstantin Manukhov, a fireman at that same studio. These men were
all arrested and executed between 1929 and 1935. There were also tragic
cases that were related to the attempt to purge individuals. For instance,
Viacheslav Uspensky, the director of Teakinopechat, was victimised by
the purge of that organisation in 1929–30. The impact of the public
denunciation was so great that Uspensky committed suicide in March
1929.26
Furthermore, the earlier purges also affected the republics. On 12
April 1932 the newspaper Kino reported the discovery of a ‘saboteur group’
in the Uzbekistan studio Uzbekgoskino, which included the reputable
80 SOVIET CINEMA

scriptwriter Boris Leonidov, the director Yuri Vasilchikov, the head of

production Ignatenko, a certain Kunin and an artist by the name of Chelli,
as well as aspiring directors David Yashin and Nikolai Klado. The group
were accused of chauvinism, ridding the studio of Uzbeks and were held
responsible for ‘colossal’ financial losses, as well as the consequent
‘destruction’ of the studio. The Supreme Court of the UzSSR sentenced
Leonidov, Ignatenko and Kunin to death by execution, but due to
Leonidov’s bravery during the Civil War, he was instead sentenced to
eight years in prison. Vasilchikov received a ten-year jail term while the
artist Chelli received a one-year sentence. Yashin and Klado received
warnings.27 Boris Leonidov stopped writing due to the onset of a ‘chronic’
long-term illness, which may or may not have been connected to the
purge, but lived until 1958. Fortunately, Yuri Vasilchikov did not serve
out his sentence and returned to cinema almost immediately. He later
went on to direct Brother Hero (Brat geroi) in 1940. Ignatenko and Kunin
may well have been executed, this is still difficult to confirm, while Chelli
continued to work in cinema. David Yashin and Nikolai Klado managed
to return to Moscow to establish successful careers in educational film
and scriptwriting/cinema journalism respectively.28
In Ukraine the early purges also had an impact. Liudmila Staritskaia-
Cherniakhovskaia, a writer who was also one of the key organisers of
Ukrainian cinematography, was arrested twice in 1930 and 1940 and
died in prison in 1941. Ukrainian military figure Yuri Tiutiunnik, who
co-wrote Dovzhenko’s Zvenigora (1928) and appeared as himself in several
films, was arrested in 1929 and executed that same year. One of the
more high-profile victims of the earlier purge in Ukraine was the head of
the script department at Ukrainfilm, Oles Dosvitny, arrested in February
1934 and executed in March of that year. Some Ukrainian writers and
journalists who had been involved in cinema scriptwriting at one time or
another were also caught up in the purges, including Daniil Gessen,
arrested in 1930 and released in 1936; Mikhail Yalovy arrested in June
1933 and executed in 1937; Miroslav Irchan arrested in December 1933
and executed in 1937; Grigori Epik arrested in December 1934 and
executed October 1937 and Valerian Polishchuk arrested along with Epik
and shot in November 1937. Lesser-known actor and director Osip
Girniak was arrested in December 1933, he was later released and
emigrated to Austria and then America. The poet, Oleks Vlysko, a regular
writer for the Ukrainian cinema newspaper Kino, was arrested in November
1934 and executed the following month. Mark Vorony, another author
 T HE PURGES 81

of publications related to cinema, was arrested the following year and

executed in November 1937. 29 Although it does not lessen the
significance of these cases, it is worth noting that most of these victims
in Ukraine had only slight connections with cinema. The majority were
arrested for reasons unrelated to film. For example, Polishchuk and Epik
were arrested as part of a drive to root out political opponents intent
on breaking Ukraine away from the Soviet Union.30 Moreover, while
many were arrested in the mid-1930s most of them were executed during
the height of the purges.
At Belgoskino Osip Dylo, a writer who was deputy head of Belgoskino
at end of 1920s, was arrested in July 1930 and exiled to Siberia for five
years. He was arrested again in 1938, but finally released a year later.
That same month Ales Lezhnevich, an actor and writer, who worked as a
consultant at Belgoskino in the late 1920s and as an assistant director
from 1930, was arrested. He survived initially before being arrested again
in 1937 and executed.31 Thus the earlier purges did have a significant
impact in the republics or their studios and this must be taken into account
when we consider the overall effect of these measures in the area of
cinema. Nonetheless, this does not alter our basic finding that, in terms
of the most influential administrative and artistic personnel, especially in
the dominant Russian republic, the period between 1929–1936 sees
recycling and adaptation to new conditions rather than a genuine purge
of the cinema industry.

Comparing the Earlier Purges of Cinema with the Later

Purges of 1936–1938
The contrast between the nature of secret police work in the cinema
industry during the earlier purges and the years 1936–1938 is well
illustrated with regard to both artistic and administrative figures. Vladimir
Nilsen had been an assistant cameraman on Eisenstein’s October and The
Old and the New. Nilsen was arrested in the autumn of 1929 due to his
time spent in Germany, as well as the fact that he had married an Italian
citizen. He was sentenced to three years’ exile, after which he became
established as the cameraman on Alexandrov’s musicals The Happy Guys,
The Circus (Tsirk, 1936) and Volga-Volga (1938). Nilsen also became a lecturer
at VGIK and a leading specialist in his field, but was arrested in 1937,
before being executed in January 1938. He was shot for supposedly being
a spy and for his alleged plan to commit a terrorist act against a member
of the Soviet government. He was clearly a victim of his earlier arrest
82 SOVIET CINEMA

and of a lingering suspicion that his true state loyalties did not lie in the
USSR. His wife, Ida Penzo, an actress and ballerina, was arrested the
following year and was only freed from the camps in 1955.32
The differences between the nature of the earlier and later purges is
also manifest in the cases of high-ranking administrators. In the summer
of 1929 the OGPU arrested Albert Slivkin, the technical director of the
Leningrad cinema studio. This was followed by a letter from that studio’s
director, Natan Grinfeld, to Konstantin Shvedchikov, asking whether or
not Slivkin should be finally removed from the studio’s employee list and
whether or not his family should lose the right to live in a flat situated in
the grounds of the studio.33 However, despite Slivkin’s apparently dire
situation, a secret report on Sovkino from 16 December 1929 angrily
complained that not only had Slivkin been released from prison, but he
had simply gone back to Sovkino and was already engaged in talks with
the administration on finding a job once more in cinema. Despite these
protests, Slivkin was able to carry on working in Moscow where he found
employment at Mezhrabpomfilm as a financial administrator and then
at Mosfilm as the assistant director of the studio.34 However, unlike many
other figures who had survived initial purge attempts in the late 1920s
and early 1930s and gone on to lead relatively normal careers, avoiding
the more serious purges of 1936–1938, Slivkin was not so fortunate. On
3 August 1937, Mikhail Romm was temporarily living at Slivkin’s flat
where he was attempting to finish the script for Lenin in October (Lenin v
Oktiabre, 1937). Romm recalled how men in military uniform knocked on
the door late that night and came in to arrest a rather weary and resigned
Slivkin. Slivkin was sentenced to execution on 15 March 1938, accused
of ‘provocatory activity’ in the Communist Party, of which he was then a
member; he was shot on the same day.35

Soviet Cinema at the Height of the Purges

As the Nilsen and Slivkin cases suggest, during the Great Terror the
nature and tone of the early purges significantly changed with arrests
drastically increasing in number. In the cinema industry the key
difference now was that the frequently ineffectual nature of earlier
purges was replaced by a ruthless efficiency, taking violence and
intimidation to new levels. Between 1936 and 1938, many key
administrative figures in Soviet cinema were arrested and executed. The
first major arrests took place in March 1936. NKVD checks unearthed
what they believed to be a Trotskyite group connected with the Party
 T HE PURGES 83

organisation within GUK. Yevgeniia Goltsman, the secretary of the

Party organisation; Ivan Sidorov, the head of GUK’s planning
department; Viktor Iosilevich, the manager of the trust for newsreel
films (Soiuzkinokhronika) and Valentin Sokol, the manager of the trust
for educational films (Soiuztekhfilm) were all arrested, as were
administrators from the photo-chemical trust and the Mosfilm studio.
Most of these individuals were exiled to labour camps, although Sokol
was executed while Sidorov was rearrested two years later and shot in
September 1938.36 Further arrests took place in October 1936, when
three senior administrators from Vostokfilm were charged with bad
management, abuse of power and the wastage of large sums of state
funds. A senior administrator by the name of Vadim Atarbekov was
sent to the camps for four years while the organisation’s former chief
accountant Dunaiats was given a year of hard labour. The purged
director, Grigori Mariamov, was also given a two-year prison camp
sentence. These individuals may have been saved from execution by
the simple fact that they were sentenced before the Great Terror was in
full swing. Indeed, Mariamov was able to restore his career within a
few years, becoming an assistant to the later head of the cinema industry,
Ivan Bolshakov.37
Those administrators arrested between 1937–1938 were not so
fortunate. Among them were the head of the industry Boris Shumiatsky
and his assistants, including his former deputy, Yakov Chuzhin, and the
man who replaced him Vasili Zhilin, as well as Vladimir Usievich,
Konstantin Yukov, the aforementioned Albert Slivkin and Veniamin Bruk,
who were all executed on grounds ranging from terrorism to spying.
Shumiatsky in particular was accused of assembling a group of terrorists
from within the cinema industry who allegedly planned to assassinate
Stalin and the Politburo. The group included the aforementioned Vladimir
Nilsen; another lesser-known cameraman based at Mosfilm, Samuil
Sverdlov; an engineer by the name of Alexander Molchanov who worked
at the Scientific Research Institute for Cinema; Yakov Smirnov, the director
of Lenfilm; Konstantin Korolev, a Kremlin projectionist and a certain
Sakharov. In January 1937, Shumiatsky was said to have guided
Molchanov and Korolev as they carried out the attempted assassination.
The official NKVD account suggested that the men deliberately smashed
a mercury rectifier, sending poisonous vapours into the Kremlin cinema.
Grigori Mariamov, who retells the incident, suggests that the projectionist,
who was carrying out repair work, slipped accidentally dropping the glass
84 SOVIET CINEMA

Photograph of Boris Shumiatsky when he was arrested (1938).

vessel, containing mercury, and then carefully cleared up the substance.

Mariamov notes that the projectionist simply ‘disappeared’ after this
incident. Korolev was in fact arrested and executed alongside Shumiatsky,
Molchanov and the other members of the so-called terrorist group.38
On the whole, administrators were far more heavily affected by the
terror than artistic personnel. A secret report on the cinema administration,
 T HE PURGES 85

at the time of Shumiatsky’s arrest suggested that out of the 453 individuals
working at GUK, 154 people had politically unreliable backgrounds or
affiliations and emanated from one of the ‘exploitative’ classes. Notably, 61
of these administrators had travelled abroad. In 1938, following the arrest
of Shumiatsky and his colleagues, the cinema administration was hit by a
further series of arrests and executions. In a similar manner to the earlier
purges, most of those arrested were heads or deputy heads of departments.
Among them were Yevgeni Satel, the manager of Goskinoprokat, the
division responsible for distribution; Vladimir Stepanov, the head of the
technical department for feature film production; Fyodor Sokolov, a senior
inspector for the cinefication administration; Alexander Kucherovsky, a
consultant for the building sector and Mikhail Breslavsky, the deputy director
of that sector, as well as Alexander Kadysh and Matvei Shkolnik, the heads
of the sectors for film viewing in two separate departments. In addition,
the head of the department for the production of educational-technical
films, Grigori Pechalin-Perez, was arrested and shot. No department escaped
the terror. The heads of the financial department M.A. Kagan and Rafail
Antikol were repressed, as was the senior economist Vasili Khomutov.
Soiuzintorgkino was targeted due to suspicions of foreign connections
established while films and film materials were being imported and exported
which led to the arrest of the body’s director Samuil Ginsburg who was of
Polish extraction. The deputy of the building sector, a certain Okulov, was
arrested after spending time abroad while a chief engineer of the cinema
mechanical industry, by the name of Petrov, was also under suspicion due
to his foreign ties. One of the leading administrators in the American-
inspired Cine City project, Yuli Piatigorsky, was accused of spying and
executed.39
Arrests were also made within the industry itself especially in the studios.
A similar trend prevailed in all the studios as a series of departmental heads
were arrested. At Mosfilm the former director Boris Babitsky and the new
director Elena Sokolovskaia, were both arrested and executed as were the
heads of the department of colour cinema, the planning department and
the sets and decorations department. The director of Lenfilm, Yakov
Smirnov and his assistants, Leonti Katsnelson, Natan Grinfeld, as well as
the artistic director of Lenfilm, Adrian Piotrovsky and the technical director,
Vasili Mikhailyk were arrested. Solomon Orelovich, the director of the
Kiev studio Ukrainfilm, suffered the same fate, as did leaders from other
key bodies including the Odessa and Armenian studios. In Azerbaijan the
head of the cinema administration, Gulam Sultanov, was accused of giving
86 SOVIET CINEMA

jobs to family and class enemies in the administration and at the studio
Azerkino. He was arrested and executed. In Georgia, the head of the cinema
industry, Amvrosi Titberidze was arrested and shot. The head of
Sibtekhfilm, Mikhail Chertulov, was arrested as was his predecessor, Mikhail
Mordokhovich. Former studio directors and leading script consultants at
all studios were arrested and the purges affected other personnel, including
editors, sound technicians, engineers, pyrotechnic experts, accountants,
drivers and firemen.40
Furthermore, the purges, as they had in earlier years, extended beyond
the administration and the studios. For instance, the State Cinema Institute
which, as we have seen, provided refuge for many controversial figures during
the 1930s, was subject to attack by the secret police. As we have also seen,
the head of the cameramen faculty, Vladimir Nilsen, was arrested and
executed, as was Lev Monosson, the head of the faculty of the organisation
and economics of cinema, and Vanda Rossolovskaia, a lecturer on foreign
cinema. One of Eisenstein’s former students, Kira Andronikashvili, was
also arrested and spent a few years in the labour camps. Kei-Kheru, the
head of department of socio-economic science was accused of spying and
shot in 1938. Again, it is noteworthy that four out of these five victims had
foreign ties of some sort. Nilsen had travelled abroad with Shumiatsky,
establishing many connections in the world of cinema technology, while
Monosson was the USSR’s film trade representative in New York in the
late 1920s and early 1930s. Kira Andronikashvili was married to the writer
Boris Pilniak who had established friendships with Western writers, including
Upton Sinclair, during a visit in the early 1930s. Finally, Kei-Kheru came
from Korea which meant that he became an instant suspect at such a
dangerous time. In the sphere of journalism the editor of the newspaper
Kino, Grigori Vovsy, was arrested and executed and the editorial board were
dismissed. Vovsy and his colleagues were accused of giving a voice to class
enemies through the publication. Pavel Shukailo a Belorussian professor at
VGIK, and a previous editor of Kino in the early 1930s, fell victim to the
terror. Kirill Shutko, a leading journalist in the field of cinema, was arrested
in 1938 and died in prison in 1941.The secretary of the organisational
bureau of the Central Committee of the Union of Film Workers, and
Latvian-born, Karl Blium, was arrested and executed. The terror had a
broader impact on the mass of workers in the entire film industry. Directors
of factories, theatres and countless projectionists, among many others, were
caught up in the wave of arrests all over the USSR.41
Nonetheless, it is important to acknowledge the fact that some individuals
 T HE PURGES 87

from the artistic sphere of cinema, both well known and not so well known,
did suffer heavily during the height of the terror. The victims were drawn
from all areas of film-making endeavour. Among them were fairly eminent
directors, including Konstantin Eggert, famous for his 1920s blockbuster
The Bear’s Wedding. He was arrested and only released in the 1950s.42 Mikhail
Dubson, another director virtually forgotten by history, was arrested in 1937,
following the ban on his controversial film Large Wings. Dubson had started
to make a name for himself at Lenfilm in the 1930s, before being sent to
prison; he was released in 1939, but his career never fully recovered and he
found it difficult to find work in cinema.43 Lesser-known assistant director,
scriptwriter and actor Viktor Portnov was arrested at Lenfilm in April 1937
and shot the following year. Ukrainian director Faust Lopatinsky fell victim
to the purges at Ukrainfilm in 1937. Documentary film-maker, and a cousin
of Leon Trotsky, Lev Bronshtein, was arrested in August 1937 and only
released in the 1950s, dying only after a few days of freedom. The assistant
director, Nikolai Dirin, who had made a name for himself on such films as
Vladimir Gardin’s Poet and Tsar (1927) and the controversial My Homeland,
was arrested and executed in 1937.44
Many scriptwriters were arrested during the height of the purges,
including Alexander Kurs, the writer of Lev Kuleshov’s The Great Consoler
(Velikii uteshitel, 1933); Boris Gusman, who co-wrote The Gay Canary (Veselaia
kanareika, 1929) also with Kuleshov, Tatiana Zlatogorova, initially an actress,
but then a co-writer with her husband Alexei Kapler, who was later arrested
himself, on Three Comrades (Tri tovarishcha, 1935) and Lenin in 1918; Raisa
Vasileva, who wrote the script for Leo Arnshtam’s Friends (Podrugi, 1935);
Sergei Tretiakov, who became known in the world of cinema for his theory
and criticism in the 1920s, but also wrote scripts for several films; Yakov
Zaitsev, a scriptwriter and assistant director at Mosfilm along with the writer
Isaac Babel, who were both involved in the lengthy rewriting of Eisenstein’s
Bezhin Meadow; Vasili Lokot who wrote the script for the hit film A Girl in
a Hurry (1936); the actor, Ivan Koval-Samborsky, who played in Yuli
Raizman’s Flyers (Letchiki, 1935) and had spent some time working in
German film, spent nearly twenty years in the camps, he was released in
1956. Yvan Kyrlya, famous for his role as ‘Dandy’ Mustapha in The Road
to Life (Putevka v zhizn, 1931) was arrested and sentenced to ten years
imprisonment in 1937, he died in 1943. Pyotr Pirogov a well-established
actor at Lenfilm was arrested and shot. The well-known actor of cinema
and theatre, Alexei Diky was arrested in 1937 and was only released four
years later. Dmitri Konsovsky who had acted with Diky in Erwin Piscator’s
88 SOVIET CINEMA

Revolt of the Fishermen (Vosstanie rybakov, 1934) was arrested, however, he was
executed in 1938. Another film actress victim of the mass repressions was
Yevdokiia Urusova who spent most of the 1940s in prison and, consequently,
only came to prominence later in her life. The foreign artist, Hungarian-
born Yevgeni Enei, who had worked in cinema from the 1920s was exiled
to Kazakhstan for several years, fortunately though, he managed to return
to the film industry in the 1940s.45
Again, the purges of artistic personnel extended to the republics. The
director, Boris Shpis, who was based at Belgoskino and co-directed the
Return of Nathan Becker (Vosvrashchenie Neitana Bekkera, 1932) and the banned
film Engineer Goff (Inzhener Goff, 1935,) was sentenced and executed in 1938.
Belorussian writers Anatol Volny and Mikhas Charot were arrested in 1936/
1937 and later shot; Galina Yegorova, an actress based at the same studio,
was accused of spying and executed; the Armenian scriptwriters Yeghishe
Charentz and Aksel Bakunts fell victim in 1937 as did the scriptwriter Yeghia
Chubar, who was arrested in June 1937 and shot the next year. Maria
Dzherpetian, an Armenian actress who played in the popular film Pepo
(1935), was arrested as a ‘socially dangerous element’ and sent to Kolyma
for five years only returning to Armenia in 1945. That republic also saw
the arrest of director Amasi Martirosian, later released, but in poor health.
The Georgian scriptwriter Bachua Kuprashvili is also named in the list of
executed purge victims. Ivan Kulik, scriptwriter of Georgi Tasin’s Nazar
Stodolia (1937) fell victim to the purge of Ukrainfilm in 1937. Ukrainian
poet and scriptwriter, Nikolai Vorony, was sentenced to eight years in the
camps in June 1937. The next month another Ukrainian scriptwriter,
Zinaida Tulub, was sentenced to ten years in the camps, but was only
released in 1956. Mikhailo Iogansen, a writer, from Ukraine, was arrested
in August 1937 and executed in October 1938. The cameraman Alexei
Kaliuzhny, also from that republic, fell victim in December 1937. The
Azerbaidjani director and actor, Abbas Sharifzade, was accused of spying
and executed.46
It is clear that these purges were far more ruthless than previously, only
now there was more emphasis on anti-communist wreckers, foreign
infiltrators and spies than issues of, say, poor work discipline. By way of
illustration, Eggert was arrested due to the fact that his second name matched
that of a Swedish baron, while Dubson had been under suspicion for his
ties with Germany and because his wife was also German. The director
had spent many years working in Berlin during the 1920s. Indeed, paranoia
over any foreign connections led to the arrest of many immigrant cinema
 T HE PURGES 89

personnel from various countries, especially Germany. The writers Gusman

and Kurs had been accused of writing ideologically unsound scripts in the
past, although the specific reason for Kurs’s execution was ‘anti-party
activity’, while Yakov Zaitsev was accused of being a terrorist. Whatever its
justification, the use of terror, violence and intimidation against personnel
from the Soviet cinema industry significantly increased during the Great
Terror.47
Moreover, the application of this terror, violence and intimidation
manifested itself in other more subtle forms that had been much less
common until 1936. One method was to arrest family members or friends.
In 1938 the father of the famous actress Zoia Fyodorova was arrested as
was the elder brother of actor Georgi Zhzhenov (in time Zhzhenov and
Fyodorova were arrested too). The two brothers and sister of actress Vera
Maretskaia were also arrested. A series of colleagues associated with
Alexander Dovzhenko were arrested or shot in the years 1937–1938,
including his favourite cameraman Danylo Demutsky.48 The secret police’s
other method would be to deliberately arrest people during the filming
process itself. In 1937, when The Great Citizen was being made at Lenfilm,
three members of the film crew were arrested in front of their colleagues
against a background of controversy surrounding the film’s false account
of the murder, once again, of Kirov.49 This created a real sense of fear in
the studios that anybody could be victimised. Moreover, foreigners, who, as
we have seen, were particularly vulnerable to the later purges, were also
subjected to arrests in studios. The two German actors Walter Tauschenbach
and Ernst Mansfeld, involved in the filming of the Mezhrabpomfilm
production Fighters (Bortsy, 1936), were arrested during production and, by
the end of 1938, two thirds of the film crew had been arrested. Many
other Germans associated with Soviet cinema were repressed at this time.50

Conclusion
As we have seen, the earlier purges did see the arrest and execution of
some individuals from the cinema industry. However, we have argued that
in terms of high-profile victims specifically associated with film, especially
in the RSFSR, the early purges often turned out to be a mere recycling of
specialists and had limited success. But, in terms of the later purges, we can
state that, from the point of view of its supporters and implementers, these
purges did remove many individuals who were regarded as subversive or a
threat to the Soviet state, including many people who had survived previous
attempts to get rid of them. In 1938 Soviet cinema was being run by a very
90 SOVIET CINEMA

different kind of administrator and this was most evident in the new
leadership. Semyon Dukelsky and his assistants from the NKVD were
characteristic of the new upwardly mobile workers who were filling the
posts vacated by purge victims.
To some extent, cinema was not targeted as an area that should receive
special attention by the secret police and many of the arrests were not
specifically connected to cinema activity as such. The cases that we have
examined suggest that cinema personnel were victimised for the same
reasons as the rest of the population. Yet the film industry was also targeted
for a specific reason. Cinema was very much a foreign art form and the
connections between Soviet artists and administrators and their Western
counterparts were particularly strong. The need to learn from the West’s
technical innovations in cinema meant that these associations continued
throughout the 1930s. This explains why in the case of cinema foreign
associations constituted one of the main reasons for arrest and execution
during the late 1930s, especially when we consider how Shumiatsky’s
administration supported the idea of a ‘Soviet Hollywood’. The turn to
the West for ideas undoubtedly provoked indignation and resentment among
the Party hierarchy and NKVD who wanted to see cinema run purely on
the Soviet principles of planning and discipline. According to the secret
police interpretation, Shumiatsky’s administration had rejected the Soviet
approach (this was untrue) and rejection was dealt with by a dangerous
form of defensiveness. We have also indicated that the impact of the purges
on cinema was specific in another sense. While we have noted the fact that
many artistic figures fell victim, it is clear that administrators were arrested
in greater numbers than directors, scriptwriters, cameramen, actors and so
on. In this way cinema differed significantly from the other arts, some of
which were decimated.
In the end, though, the NKVD’s attack on cinema merely contributed
to the existing decay within the industry, as they either physically or mentally
destroyed many talented people who, even under the politicised laws of
that time, were completely innocent of the absurd accusations levelled
against them and were all rehabilitated during the 1950s and beyond. The
attack on cinema exposed a regime that had simply run out of ideas.
Moreover, although the later purges undoubtedly engendered a strong sense
of fear among cinema personnel, these measures along with many other
Bolshevik policies, were simply counter-productive and self-defeating.
 91

CHAPTER 4

THEMATIC PLANNING

I
n the broader Soviet context, the year 1929 saw the beginning of the
shift towards the command economy and the idea of planning. The
Bolsheviks believed that planning production, distribution and exchange
would ensure a fair distribution of resources, taking economic matters away
from the erratic and exploitative control of the market and placing them in
the control of human hands. The revolutionaries argued that such an
economy would satisfy human needs more effectively than its capitalist
rival. However, the Bolsheviks application of planning was not only confined
to economic matters. Such an approach was also applied to the sphere of
culture and ideas where planning was introduced, not only for rational
economic reasons, but also to help control the very content of cultural
production. For cinema to follow the path outlined at the Party conference
in 1928, it too would be subject to a system of central planning. The Party
believed that the plan would put the future development of the studios in
their hands. The thematic plan would designate a particular quantity of
films that should be made in a given year; it would, in theory, act as another
means of quality control; it would carefully distribute the financial and
other means required for each production and, most importantly, it would
provide the studio with a series of particular themes that had to be covered.1
Thematic planning became an integral part of the Bolshevik defence
strategy to harness cinema to the needs of the young Soviet state. However,
as we shall argue, the defensive mentality that helped create the elaborate
system of thematic planning also tended to undermine that system.

Plan Compilation
The compilation of thematic plans involved a series of institutions and
individuals. From the very beginning of planning in 1928, the Party’s
92 SOVIET CINEMA

Central Committee had begun to shape the broad themes of yearly

thematic plans. The Central Committee and other senior bodies, such as
the central trade union organisation, sent the cinema administration
recommended themes and materials that were to be covered. The precise
details of the plan would usually be discussed and elaborated by the
cinema administration’s artistic council, which consisted of artistic and
bureaucratic members of cinema organisations and studios, as well as
representatives of the film industry and the press.2 Thus until the end of
1931, planning methodology was based on the so-called ‘direct order’
system, whereby a combination of political figures and cinema
administration bureaucrats would compile a list of priority thematic areas,
relating to the fundamental political issues of the day, these themes would
then be elaborated upon, before the studios received an order to make a
certain quantity of films on socialist construction, cultural revolution and
so on. Then the studio would be expected to find a scriptwriter who could
carry out the order as well as a director to turn the script into a film.3
This system changed with the creation of the thematic plan for 1932.
The obvious weakness of planning up until this time was its failure to
attract the scriptwriters themselves into the process of thematic plan
formulation. This was seen as one of the central reasons for the collapse
of the early thematic plans. Henceforth, the plan would be reinforced by
a series of specific, creative ideas proposed by scriptwriters. The difference
was essentially one of emphasis. It was recognised that scriptwriters were
not simply implementers of Party policy, but had their own ideas to
contribute.4 This, however, was not an attempt to grant film-makers more
creative freedom, rather, it was intended to draw them towards the idea
of planning. Furthermore, while scriptwriters were now participating more
in terms of the film content, the basic thematic areas that could be covered
were still determined by senior Party figures, according to the political
needs of the regime. This meant that, throughout the 1930s and beyond,
authors knew that they would have to produce proposals and ideas that
would at least appear to meet the political demands of the Party. Efforts
to deliberately go beyond the narrow confines of the thematic plan would
simply mean an end to careers, as there would eventually be no alternative
sources of funding other than the state. Therefore, in order to make ends
meet, creative personnel knew that they would have to work within certain
thematic boundaries.
Moreover, after 1931, thematic planning became subject to more and
more control from various organisations, the cinema administration and
 T HEMATIC PLANNING 93

the Party leadership, indicating that the opportunity for the writers to
fully shape their own ideas would always be constrained to some extent.
First, the draft plan was sent for discussion to workers’ meetings and literary
organisations. Second, studio personnel could make any required changes
and consider whether or not the plan could be implemented. The studio
leadership would have to give final approval for their individual thematic
plans. Third, every year the cinema administration would have to give its
confirmation of the final plan. Fourth, the official censorship body, GRK,
had to approve each plan. Fifth, the agitprop department of the Central
Committee had already been giving its assent to thematic plans since the
late 1920s, as well as offering its own recommendations for implementation.
Agitprop also set up committees that offered their conclusions and
proposals for discussion under the oversight of agitprop. From 1933
onwards, the Central Committee’s Orgburo discussed the thematic plans
and, within the studios themselves, Party organisations began to get more
involved in the debates and criticism of the plans. Finally, from the late
1930s onwards, in addition to providing the themes that should be covered
in each plan, the Soviet government and the Party’s Central Committee
began to issue decrees approving the final version of each yearly plan.5
But the main Party-sponsored means of improving the ideological and
organisational influence of the plan was the establishment of yearly thematic
planning conferences, which began in 1931. These conferences would be
attended by senior Party figures from the Central Committee’s agitprop
department, as well as a broad cross section from the film community,
ranging from studio administrators to directors and scriptwriters. Every
year the conference would examine how effectively script work was going
in the studios, taking into account how far Party directives on the need for
film production to be based upon fully prepared scripts were being carried
out. The conference would also look at issues of genre as this lay at the very
centre of the thematic plan structure.6

Plan Content and its Function

It was considered essential that the Party could fully determine the
thematic coverage of every film produced in the USSR. The thematic
plan represented one of the central means by which the political leadership
would attempt to harness cinema towards the goals of the regime. As we
have argued, the defence and legitimisation of the regime were the most
fundamental roles of the Soviet film industry. Throughout the period
1929–1941, the political leadership and the cinema administration
94 SOVIET CINEMA

supported two basic dimensions of legitimisation through thematic

planning; films that would deal with the long-term origins and existence
of the regime and films that would legitimise current government policies
or campaigns in a given area. From the very first thematic plan until
1941, two thematic areas formed a constant part of every annual plan.
These were historical and historical-revolutionary themes. These themes
were intended to show the masses why and how the Revolution had taken
place and suggest that, through the Communist Party, ordinary citizens
had taken control. Films based on these themes were to convey a largely
one-sided interpretation of history whereby all events would be seen
through a Marxist-Leninist prism.
Several films were included in annual thematic plans, which sought
to show ordinary people that they had become empowered through the
Revolution, that the Soviet system was all about mass control of power
and resources, through the Party, and the establishment of a just, fair
type of human existence. Among the most well-known planned films in
this area was the Maxim Trilogy, featuring The Youth of Maksim (Iunost
Maksima, 1934), The Return of Maksim (Vozvrashchenie Maksima, 1937), and
The Vyborg Side (Vyborgskaia storona, 1938). The essential task of these films
was to show the coming to revolutionary consciousness of the young
worker Maksim as he witnesses the brutality and cruelty of the tsarist
social system. Maksim becomes a member of the Party and eventually a
minister of the revolutionary government. The films were included in
the thematic plans of the early to late thirties in an effort to show the
masses that the people running the country were the same as the ordinary
people on the streets, not an elite dictatorship. The rulers and ruled
supposedly merged into a mythical whole.
The thematic plans also contained a series of films, which offered a
purely Bolshevik interpretation of recent and distant historical events.
The Vasilevs’ Chapaev portrayed the civil war as a struggle between the
red forces of good and the white forces of evil. Again the ordinary person
is the vehicle for mythologising the Bolshevik victory as Chapaev, a man
of peasant origin, becomes the great military leader who dies for the
communist cause. Other historical films dealt with great political figures,
who were seen as playing their role in the struggle towards the eventual
communist society. These included Petrov-Bytov’s Pugachev (1937), which
questionably suggested that the uprising of the Ural Cossacks in 1773
was part of a long historical struggle towards the establishment of social
justice for the peasantry.
 T HEMATIC PLANNING 95

Still of actor Boris Chirkov from The Youth of Maksim (1934).

In the latter part of the 1930s, a series of films, which were planned
under the historical-revolutionary banner, were made concerning the
leaders of the Party, during the Revolution. Examples include the films
Lenin in October and its sequel Lenin in 1918. These films sought to reinforce
96 SOVIET CINEMA

the heroic myth of Lenin’s revolutionary greatness. They also aimed to

show that the Bolshevik arguments were always the correct arguments.
In Lenin in 1918, the post-Revolutionary atmosphere of terror, executions
of enemies, traitors and bread speculators, as well as forced grain
requisitioning from the peasants is justified by a context under which the
Bolsheviks were encircled by the Whites, alongside the allied powers, and
had to deal with internal enemies and a starving population. At the end
of the film, Lenin tells Stalin that without ‘severity’ and ‘iron’ the
Revolution would have failed. The film not only justifies the violent
establishment of the Soviet regime, it also implies that the brutality of
the system under Stalin was equally justified given the seemingly persistent
existence of the class enemy. Other films emphasised the natural succession
from Lenin to Stalin, such as The Great Glow (Velikoe zarevo, 1938), where
the two revolutionaries were shown working in close coordination. The
film suggested that Stalin had played a more prominent role in the October
Revolution than was in fact the case. Films were even made concerning
slightly less significant revolutionaries, such as Yakov Sverdlov (1941).
The other central aim of thematic planning, to ensure the creation of
films that would defend and legitimise current government policies or
campaigns in given area, was applied to each yearly plan significantly
narrowing down creative possibilities. The planning system ensured that
many films would cover themes that were considered to be of great priority
for the Party. In this sense thematic planning was about legitimisation,
but it was also about mobilisation. Cinema was considered an ideal means
to help convince the masses that they must participate in the realisation
of political and economic goals. These varied according to the needs of
the day. In the late 1920s and early 1930s, thematic plans included films
that would deal with socialist construction, reflecting the drive to fulfil
the first Five Year Plan. At this time films were also planned, which fitted
into the spirit of the cultural revolution, such as anti-religious films. In
the mid-1930s, a series of film versions of Russian literary works were
produced, reflecting the Party’s desire to raise the cultural level of the
masses and introduce to them, in an accessible form, to the classics. There
were many of these films, including The Storm (Groza, 1934), based on
Nikolai Ostrovsky’s tale, Dubrovsky (1935), based on Pushkin’s story and
Without a Dowry based, again, on a play by Ostrovsky. The latter part of
the 1930s saw the introduction of themes on Stakhanovism, including
films, such as Miners (Shakhtery, 1937), part of the attempt to increase worker
productivity, as well as productions concerning the defence of the country,
 T HEMATIC PLANNING 97

Film poster for the film Lenin in 1918 (1939).

such as If War Comes Tomorrow (Esli zavtra voina, 1938) or Sailors (Moriaki,
1939). The government needed cinema to help convince the masses that
they must be ready to protect the USSR on land, sea or in the air from
the threats of external powers, particularly that of Nazi Germany. Thus,
to a great extent, the annual thematic plans coincided with government
campaigns and concerns at a given time.
98 SOVIET CINEMA

One of the fundamental problems of thematic planning was that its

attempt to convey these differing political messages to the masses often
neglected the need to do so in an entertaining manner. It is certainly true
that some strong films were made in the 1930s that managed to achieve
the right balance. Obvious examples are Chapaev, or the Alexandrov
comedies The Circus (Tsirk, 1936), Volga Volga (1938) and The Radiant Path
(Svetlyi put, 1940) or Ivan Pyrev’s rural comedies The Rich Bride (Bogataia
nevesta, 1937) and The Swineherdess and the Shepherd (Svinarka i pastukh, 1941).
The dramatic action of Chapaev and the outstanding music and direction
of the comedies meant that these films were hugely popular and effectively
conveyed the sense that life was good in the Soviet Union. However, films
of this quality were not the norm in the 1930s. As we noted earlier with
censorship, the politicisation of films often tended to overwhelm the
entertainment element. The result was that many films tended to be overtly
long and tedious. For example, Lenin in 1918 tended to dwell on the political
arguments as to why Lenin made a certain decision at a certain time.
Towards the end of the decade these films were becoming increasingly
commonplace. As we shall later observe, Ermler’s Great Citizen, for example,
lasted for over four hours in total and contained endless political debates
and speeches glorifying Stalinism. Thus despite the rhetoric that thematic
planning would ensure a varied diet of entertaining feature films, the
plans leaned more towards the satisfaction of political imperatives.

Plan Implementation
The first proper thematic plan was discussed and confirmed in July 1928
and would become an established feature of Soviet cinema.7 However,
the early plans were somewhat primitive, attracting wide criticism with
some figures questioning the need for any planning whatsoever.8 On 10
July 1928, Sovkino’s artistic council held a meeting to discuss the thematic
plan for 1928–1929, decreeing that the plan should be accepted on the
condition that it would be further refined by a specially appointed
committee. The committee met the very next day to consider the final
plan. The committee reflected on the shortcomings of the themes in films
over the past year, concluding that there were few films dealing with
international matters, issues of political and economic construction, as
well as an absence of anti-religious films. Moisei Rafes, who read out the
conclusions of the committee, suggested that there was a need to
strengthen ‘the political commitment of our thematic plan’. In order to
do this it was proposed that the plan should contain a clear division of
 T HEMATIC PLANNING 99

thematic areas that were mandatory. There were nine divisions in the
plan with the following titles: ‘political questions and economic
construction in the urban sphere’, ‘political questions and economic
construction in the rural sphere’, ‘the cultural revolution and reality’,
‘international themes’, ‘youth themes’, ‘films for children’, ‘historical and
historical-revolutionary films’, ‘comedies’ and ‘newsreel-political films’.
Under each division a series of scripts were listed as either being ready to
be filmed or in the process of being written. The scriptwriter was listed
along with a description of the proposed project. All of this was clearly
intended to narrow the possibilities down to the demands of the Party.
The committee requested the establishment of special artistic council
meetings to view finished films.9
As we have seen, from the mid-1930s onwards, the thematic plan
does appear to be a reasonably sure way of controlling and determining
film production and film content. However, this was not always the case.
For instance, under the division ‘political questions and economic
construction in the urban sphere’, the plan contained Ermler’s Fragment
of an Empire which was described in the plan as concerning ‘Soviet relations
at a factory and Soviet reality through the eyes of a person brought up on
tsarism’. While this is not an inaccurate description, it gave no indication
whatsoever that Ermler intended to make a Formalist film that was critical
of Soviet reality and revealed the extent to which the early plans relied
on trust rather than compulsion.10
In the autumn of 1930, during the development of the first Moscow
studio thematic plan for 1930–1931, an anonymous commentator stated
that, although two and a half years had passed since the Party Conference
on cinema, the goals laid out by the conference had not been achieved.
The blame for this was firmly attached to the cinema leadership, claiming
an ‘absence of a correct artistic political leadership of cinema production’.
The author pointed out that there had been several cases of cinema
creative personnel moving away from the tasks put forward by the Party,
as well as the ‘distortion’ and ‘vulgarisation’ of these tasks in films that
had been initially presented in thematic plans, but had been banned.
The author cited the films The Path of the Enthusiasts (Put entuziastov, 1930)
and Quiet Flows the Don (Tikhii Don, 1930) as examples, claiming that
planning had so far only existed ‘on paper’. The temporary head of
Soiuzkino, Konstantin Shvedchikov, offered an even more frank assessment
of the existing system: ‘the main shortcoming in our work at Soiuzkino
relates to plans. We do not have any plans – we work from case to case’.11
100 SOVIET CINEMA

Stricter procedures were proposed as a means of making the plan more

effective. It was suggested that the plan should include precise characteristics
of ideological thematic material, which would ensure a more sound content
in the films. These characteristics were to be found in the everyday reality
of socialist construction. A clear correlation of genres was to be established
as were ‘indicators of an artistic-ideological quality’ such as “class
steadfastness”’. By 1932, there were signs that the demands for more rigorous
plan creation and application were gradually being answered. The films
being produced began to correlate to the original plan. In 1934, the cinema
administration introduced a new system whereby raw film stock would
only be issued after a director’s script and a general plan had been
approved.12 So, following an ignominious first few years, more attention
was gradually accorded to the control and content of thematic planning.
Yet the failure of the thematic plan to ensure that purely ideologically
correct, Party approved projects would be produced did not only represent
a problem for the early plans. Despite the apparent restrictions imposed
by the new thematic boundaries, a whole series of films were produced
throughout the 1930s that indicated that the system did not achieve what
it ought to have achieved. It is important to note that most scriptwriters
faithfully supported the regime and endeavoured to create films about
class enemies, saboteurs or Stakhanovites. Indeed, it is true that the
majority of films produced in this period were unambiguously supportive
of the regime and its goals. However, others who were less enthusiastic
about the options available would present proposals that appeared to fit
in to the plan’s remit, but when it came to production they would exercise
their semi-autonomous license to express themselves more fully and stretch
their creativity. Directors frequently changed script content during the
filming process itself, introducing their own artistic stamp to the given
project.13 Among them was the director Yuli Raizman who worked within
the narrow confines of the system to express himself in a manner, which
differed from the orthodoxies of the time. For instance, his film The Last
Night (Posledniaia noch, 1937) had originally come under the ‘historical-
revolutionary’ thematic category. As we have seen, the typical film to fall
under this heading would usually glorify the Revolution and its leaders.
However, Raizman emphasised the everyday experience of ordinary
people and carefully pointed to the tragic and even comical elements of
October 1917. Raizman’s more sincere portrait of the Revolution caused
much unease and proved that thematic planning was not always as effective
as the Bolsheviks would have liked.
 T HEMATIC PLANNING 101

The Practical Failures of Thematic Planning

One of the central reasons for yearly plan failure was the manner in
which available finances were being used. A report on the collapse of the
1929 plan at Sovkino’s Moscow studio suggested that the actual cost of
the average film exceeded the plan figure by forty four per cent.14 This
was a problem that would be repeated at Mosfilm and all the Soviet
studios throughout the 1930s. It was certainly true that, to some extent,
the planning system failed to take into account the true costs of film-
making and the fact that creativity needed generous resources, the
expenditure of which was hard to foresee in estimates. And so each year,
significant financial sums would be poured into each studio’s thematic
plan, but the result would always be the same; many films would drop
out of the plan as a result of millions of roubles being overspent on other
productions. But the reality for Soviet cinema was that resources were
very scarce and so new controls over film budgets were inevitable. From
1935 the old system, whereby the studio director would be given funds,
presented with a general limit on overall expenditure and expected to
distribute those funds accordingly, came under attack in the cinema press.15
By 1938, a system was in place, according to which, each film would
have a strict, individual budget limit that would be approved by the head
of the cinema administration.
Yet figures in the film industry knew that the financial chaos that had
plagued the studios in the 1930s could not solely be attributed to the
limited sums of money available to the film-makers. First of all, there
was a fundamental problem with actors. The cinema industry had failed
to establish courses to attract student actors into the world of cinema.
Theatre was still considered to be a superior art form and professional
actors almost always preferred to be theatre trained. This meant that
cinema usually had to pay theatre actors to play film roles. The difficulty
was that these actors preferred to carry out theatre work simultaneously
and regarded film as a secondary job. This was particularly problematic
over the summer months when the Soviet theatre companies toured the
country, while a great deal of outdoor filming took place. Actors often
had to be flown from one city to another in order to carry out their dual
obligations. The consequence for the film industry was the loss of
significant amounts of time and the substantial delays in film completion.16
Secondly, poor organisation was contributing to the unbalanced use
of resources and subsequent plan failure. Much of this poor organisation
came down to a lack of preparation. A great deal of time was being
102 SOVIET CINEMA

wasted setting up lighting, cranes and microphones for particular shoots

during time allocated for filming. Moreover, ill-prepared actors would
often continuously rehearse their parts when the shoot should have been
taking place. 17 At the same time, a combination of organisational
weakness and technical backwardness caused significant hold ups. Studios
were often overbooked at certain times of the year. This was problematic
as even in the better studios, such as Mosfilm, poor soundproofing and a
weak electricity supply meant that two crews could not work
simultaneously. Furthermore, many film-makers relied on good summer
weather in the USSR’s main northern cities to carry out necessary outdoor
shooting. However, slow project development frequently necessitated film
crew trips to the south to complete work, which had not been finished
while the climate was warm in the north. These trips were very expensive,
incurring inevitable overexpenditure.18
Finances were also being squandered due to the constant changes to
scripts that were either in the process of being accepted or had already
been accepted. Scriptwriters would be paid advances after establishing
an agreement with the studio to complete a script for a given film. But,
the constant checking and demands for changes by studio editors and
consultants had a very significant impact on eventual film production
and release. Excessive concerns about the ideological and artistic quality
of scripts led to huge losses of money. Between January 1935 and June
1936, the Kiev studio had made 94 agreements with scriptwriters
amounting to just over a million roubles. Over half of this sum had already
been paid out in the form of advances. However, 33 of these agreements
were annulled, after it had been decided that these scripts were
ideologically and artistically weak and could not be improved further.19
Even those projects that did go ahead were subject to further script
examination when the film was already in production. Such bureaucracy
could cause varying delays. In 1929, Yuri Olesha’s script version of his
novel Envy (Zavist, 1927) was included in Sovkino’s original thematic plan
for that year.20 After six years of bureaucracy, the script, which had now
been completely rewritten, was finally set into production at the Kiev
studio, but A Strict Youth was then banned from release. Similar problems
dogged Efim Dzigan’s The First Cavalry (Pervaia konnaia) completed and
subsequently banned in 1941. It had originally formed part of the 1936
thematic plan. These are certainly extreme examples, but delays of around
two years on certain films, partly due to editor interference, were not
unusual and many films did not go beyond the planning stage.
 THEMATIC PLANNING 103

A cartoon sketch of a bureaucrat pouring money into thematic planning (1935).

Indeed, the often rigid Bolshevik defensive outlook that, in combination

with Marxist ideology, led to the attempt to apply thematic planning to
cinema production, failed to recognise that the problem with using cinema
as a political vehicle for defending the past and present of the Soviet
regime was that international circumstances and alignments were very
changeable at this time. The First Cavalry again provides a good example.
The film dealt with a past conflict between the Soviet Union and Poland
after the Revolution. However, in 1939 Nazi Germany invaded Poland
and, by 1941, as the USSR got involved in the war, Poland became an
ally of the Soviet Union. Consequently, the film, with its anti-Polish tone,
was no longer politically valuable and was banned.21 Several other films,
which began their lives in the seemingly safe world of the thematic plan,
were also victims of the complexities of international developments and
Soviet foreign policy, including Eisenstein’s Alexander Nevsky (1938) and
Herbert Rappoport’s The Guest (Gost, 1939). The cumulative result of
script alterations, rapid changes in political policy, organisational chaos
and the actor problem meant that millions of roubles were simply wasted
on a yearly basis and thematic plans were never even close to fulfilment.

Conclusion
Thematic planning was considered to be one of the central means by
which the Bolsheviks would take full control of Soviet cinema in the late
104 SOVIET CINEMA

1920s and utilise it to both persuade the masses of the righteousness of

the regime and the need to carry out the tasks demanded by that regime.
After the failure of the initial thematic plans in the late 1920s and early
1930s the Party and cinema administration had tried to strengthen
thematic planning ideologically and organisationally throughout the
remaining years of that decade. This undoubtedly had a significant impact
on the cinema industry, but not necessarily the impact desired by Party
and administrative leaders. The evidence suggests that the practical and
organisational aspects of thematic planning were persistently weak in
the mid-to-late 1930s and the films were not being produced in acceptable
quantities. Most importantly, the use of the thematic plan as a means of
controlling the ideological content did become stronger after the chaotic
early years. Yet, it is evident that thematic planning could not provide a
guarantee of political and ideological correctness with regard to film
content. The main ‘success’ from the Party’s point of view was the
narrowing down of thematic possibilities, preventing scriptwriters from
avoiding socialist themes of one form or another. Although thematic
planning by the end of the 1930s had a huge impact on the nature of
Soviet film output, it was clearly a highly negative impact wholly different
from the intentions of its creators. It was a defensive mode of thinking
aimed at protecting the October Revolution, its legacy and the policies
of the present and future that helped to give rise to thematic planning in
cinema. Nevertheless, it was this very defensiveness and its obsession with
‘correct’ interpretations of the past and political relevance in the present
that, paradoxically, undermined thematic planning. The failure of films
to live up to persistently vague and arbitrary political criteria almost
brought Soviet cinema to its knees in the 1930s as countless movies
disappeared in a maze of bureaucracy.
 105

CHAPTER 5

REPRESENTATION AND REACH:

CINEMA UNIONS AND SOCIETIES

S
oviet cinema was similar to other artistic endeavours and was also
treated as another branch of industry. Its personnel therefore
required the means to defend their interests on a collective and
individual level. They required organisations for the purpose of engaging
in debates and exchanging ideas, as well as promoting cinema. However,
these needs were to come into conflict with the political requirements of
the Soviet regime which was more concerned with using cinema
organisations as a means for mobilising the industry’s workers for the
realisation of Party goals, and for conveying official ideology. Political
interference eventually meant that none of these functions would be
adequately met and the cinema industry would be denied a proper
organisation to represent the needs of its participants. Nonetheless, by
the mid-to-late 1930s, an unofficial system of rewards and patronage
had developed whereby a privileged group of film-makers now had access
to funds and many other benefits that the broader mass of creative and
other personnel lacked. Moreover, towards the end of the 1930s members
of the privileged group were also given a significant role within the
decision-making structures of the industry’s bureaucracy. Thus they
differed from the majority in that they managed to compensate, to some
extent, for the lack of union bargaining power by exploiting their position
of privilege and having some influence in the production process.

The Establishment of ARRK

In 1922 the first major association of cinema personnel was established
under the title ‘The Moscow Society of Cinema Personnel’. The society
was distinctly apolitical, committing itself to a union of cinema
106 SOVIET CINEMA

professionals who would continue with technical and artistic development

of Russian cinematography. It also maintained a strong interest in the
fate of pre-Revolutionary cinema figures, now living in exile in Berlin
and Paris.1 Inevitably, this body was overshadowed by the emergence of
ARK (see above) in 1924, which would gradually embrace the most
significant representatives of the film industry. The new organisation was
established as a reaction to the Moscow Society and, in its declaration, it
pointed to ‘the colossal significance of cinema as a powerful ideological
weapon in the struggle for communist culture’. Although the early debates
over the association’s functions suggest that there were differing opinions
over what a politically committed, communist cinema should be, the
declaration offered a reasonably clear outline of the intended tasks of
ARK.2 As a professional association, ARK was supposed to pressure
studios into maintaining a correct ideological and artistic line (although
this was not defined). It had to promote the interests of cinema to the
government and the wider public. This also involved actively engaging
the masses through the establishment of ODSK and lobbying for the
creation of scientific, educational and rural cinemas. In addition, ARK
was to be divided up into areas of cinematic expertise to facilitate debate
and research in each area and take measures in order to improve the
knowledge of existing film-makers and the emergence of new personnel.
Finally, the association aimed to set up relations with foreign organisations,
working in film.3
As noted, towards the end of the 1920s, ARK became increasingly
subject to attack in the press for its perceived liberal approach and had
changed its name to ARRK (now including the word ‘Workers’) to fit in
to the new proletarianisation agenda. RAPP (Russian Association of
Proletarian Writers) joined the attack on the association, accusing ARRK
of having ‘no clear ideological platform’ and for considering Formalism
to be legitimate. It also demanded that ARRK, which was an association
of professionals and had almost no genuinely proletarian representatives
from the cinema industry in its ranks, purge ‘obviously hostile elements’
and train film workers from a proletarian background.4 The following
year, an article in the cinema journal Kino i zhizn suggested that ARRK
was an elite ‘guild’ of leading figures in the industry and had to become
a truly mass organisation by embracing thousands of ordinary workers
and by making a real effort to reach the masses.5
The association was slow to respond to these accusations. Once again,
its first step was to define its functions by a charter created in January
 R EPRESENTATION AND REACH 107

1929. The role of the organisation was basically the same as that which
had been outlined in 1924. Nonetheless, the charter inevitably reflected
the times with references to the need for Soviet films ‘saturated in
proletarian ideology’ and the requirement to fight against the emergence
of ‘bourgeois’ ideology in Soviet films. To some extent, the association
adhered to its own rules and regulations governing its powers and activities.
It had the right to discuss, debate and provide a research forum relating
to any area of cinematography. It could also organise lectures and viewings
of new films. The results of debates or any new knowledge could then be
publicised in the cinema press. These functions remained at the heart of
ARRK’s activities in the late 1920s and early 1930s. The lectures and
debates were wide ranging and included discussions on the state of the
Soviet cinema industry, creative matters connected to all the main cinema
professions, as well as exchanges on technology. For instance, the
development of sound was one of the more common preoccupations in
ARRK at the turn of the decade and the lectures and debates undoubtedly
helped to publicise and improve understanding of a problematic area.6
ARRK also had powers to approve any visits of its members to foreign
countries in the interests of technical and practical knowledge gathering.
For example, when Sergei Eisenstein, Grigori Alexandrov and Eduard
Tisse received an invitation from the American company United Artists
to produce a film in the USA, the three men had to write to the board of
ARRK, requesting permission to take up the offer.7
It is important to note that ARRK was an association of cinema
professionals, not a trade union. In the 1920s up until 1934, the cinema-
photographic section of the arts union Rabis was responsible for
monitoring working conditions, examining grievances among cinema
personnel, ensuring the enforcement of labour legislation, regulating
wages, hours and social insurance. Rabis also got involved in other areas,
such as supporting unemployed cinema personnel to gain new training,
or find work in other sectors. While Rabis was fairly active in the defence
of its members’ interests in the 1920s, as the decade wore on, cinema
personnel felt increasingly neglected by the trade union. Rabis accorded
cinema less importance than the other arts. In particular, the union gave
disproportionate attention to the needs of theatre. Leading cinema
personnel perceived Rabis as essentially a union which dealt with theatre
actors. Part of the problem may have been Rabis’s huge membership
which reached around 150,000 members by the early 1930s, dealing with
nearly 600 different professions. It was clear that Rabis was simply unable
108 SOVIET CINEMA

to cope with the demands that were being placed on it.8 As a direct
consequence, by the end of the 1920s and, in the early part of the 1930s,
ARRK’s role began to expand beyond that of a typical professional
association aimed at promoting the interests of cinema and its members.
It now began to adopt functions that would normally have fallen within
the remit of Rabis, without having the powers of that union.
In January 1929, an actress by the name of Rosiner was dismissed by
director Ivan Pyrev from his latest film The Strange Woman (Postoronniaia
zhenshchina, 1929). The actress then wrote to the actor’s division of ARRK,
claiming that Pyrev had mistreated her and unfairly relieved her of her
role. The association acknowledged that it did not have the power to
demand Rosiner’s reinstatement, but it gave the actress its full support,
making a statement in the press, lobbying Sovkino and making a plea to
the central committee of Rabis.9 Indeed, ARRK’s involvement in such
labour disputes became the norm and it soon began to support
unemployed cinema specialists by publicising the situation and applying
pressure when possible.10
ARRK’s struggle to support the cause of cinema and its members
was made more difficult by the organisation’s lack of financial means. In
1929 it was claimed that only a third of members had paid their fees
while Sovkino, the cinema administration, had failed to give ARRK the
5000 roubles that it had promised to provide. The association was also in
debt to various organisations, including Rabis and ODSK and this simply
made it harder for the body to function.11 Ultimately though, finances
had little bearing on the fate of the association. On the other hand, the
years of cultural revolution had a devastating effect. By 1932 ARRK, as
noted above, had been purged to the extent that the organisation was a
pale remnant of its former self. Yet it managed to survive, despite the
liquidation of RAPP, which was fairly influential in the world of literature
and had helped push ARRK toward the proletarianisation agenda. Why
did it survive? It was certainly not perceived as a political threat anymore.
Indeed, by the end of 1932, there was a considerable degree of apathy
among the most senior members of the association, even in the Leningrad
branch, which had been subject to constant suspicion over its political
and artistic loyalties in the late 1920s. However, ARRK was to receive a
new role which gained support from its leadership headed by Vsevolod
Pudovkin and the cinema press. It was agreed that the weakness of ARRK
lay in its isolation from the production process. The association was no
longer to engage in abstract debate and argument, it had to help in the
 R EPRESENTATION AND REACH 109

very process of film-making at the studios themselves. The turn to

production reflected the tone of the cultural revolution, which had now
ended, but the overwhelming emphasis on production and praxis left an
indelible mark on the Soviet system. ARRK was renamed RosARRK
(Ros standing for ‘Russian’) and special association ‘cells’ were established
in the studios where members of RosARRK were supposed to discuss
ideas, scripts and films with film-makers, administrators and Party
representatives at the studio, as well as help the younger generation.
Pudovkin summed up this new direction by stating that the association’s
main task was to ‘transform each member of cinema personnel into a
highly cultured fighter on the front of the second Five Year Plan’.12
Unfortunately, this attempt to revive the association proved to be a
failure. The results at the studios varied, but it soon became clear that
RosARRK had no future. In January 1935, at the First All-Union
Conference of Creative Workers, Pudovkin announced the official
liquidation of the association. He claimed that RosARRK was not
prepared for its new role and that a certain RAPP-influenced elitism had
remained in the organisation. Pudovkin optimistically called for the
creation of a new creative Union of Soviet Cinematographers. Such an
aspiration would only be realised over twenty years later with the
establishment of the Union of Cinematographers in 1957. By 1935
creative personnel had already been absorbed by a new cinema trade
union.13

ODSK
ODSK or The Society of Friends of Soviet Cinema, was founded in
November 1925 as the industry’s first truly mass voluntary organisation,
intended to replace its short-lived predecessor OSPK (The Society of
Builders of Proletarian Cinema).14 The cinema writer, Grigori Boltiansky,
described the new organisation as having ‘enormous significance’.
Boltiansky suggested that ODSK’s fundamental role would be as ‘an
instrument of education and knowledge’.15 Most importantly, ODSK was
supposed to provide the connection between the Party, Government and
cinema industry on the one hand and the masses on the other hand. In
order to provide this central link, ODSK was expected to carry out a
series of tasks. The most commonly employed function was the use of
viewings of Soviet films followed by discussion. There were many sceptics
in the film industry who questioned the ability of poorly educated and,
sometimes, illiterate workers and peasants to contribute to a useful debate
110 SOVIET CINEMA

on the merits or shortcomings of a given film. The cinema journalist M.

Nikanorov argued that workers and peasants could offer worthy
commentary, but emphasised the value of discussions as a means of
politically educating the ‘least conscious’ members of the audience.
Nikanorov proposed the establishment of so-called ‘cinema judges’
(kinosuda), groups of experts who could explain the political and social
meaning of Soviet films in an intelligible and engaging manner. Thus,
above all, the emphasis on film viewings, for commentators such as
Nikanorov, offered the ideal opportunity to spread the communist message
and raise mass political consciousness. In addition to film viewings and
discussions, ODSK arranged lectures and reports, which would also be
accompanied by a film viewing to attract larger audiences. More ambitious
plans included expanding these viewings and lectures to include
exhibitions where lists of books could be recommended to workers and
peasants. In Leningrad a series of ‘cinema evenings’ had been established
which, again, included a film viewing expanded upon by cultural events
related to the film, such as a concert or ballet performance.16
The Society had one potentially powerful weapon at its disposal to
help fulfil its aim of reaching the masses; the newspaper Kino. The well-
established paper gave the society the perfect opportunity to publicise
itself and its activities. In January 1928 at the second plenum of the Society,
the general secretary insisted that every member of ODSK, from the top
to the bottom of the organisation, ought to be able to obtain a copy of
the newspaper given its significant role as part of Soviet cinema’s
educational function. This ambition was partly hampered by the patchy
distribution of Kino to the extent that even main cities, such as Leningrad,
might not receive any copies of the publication for a month. Moreover,
in practice articles on ODSK were the exception rather than the rule.
ODSK made some efforts to set up film viewings for worker audiences,
but judging by the debates that took place, genuinely ordinary workers or
peasants were rarely given the real opportunity to express their views and
the ideal of films reflecting ideas expressed by ordinary citizens was largely
an illusion. Moreover, as we have seen, only a few Soviet films were
subjected to ODSK scrutiny and ODSK decisions were often ignored by
studios, censors and distributors which underlined the society’s powerless
status.17 The society also wanted workers and peasants to actively
participate in the development of the industry itself, aiming to take into
account their views. Throughout the existence of the society it was
emphasised that the broad masses had an important role to play in the
 R EPRESENTATION AND REACH 111

cinefication of the country, especially in the rural areas. The role of ODSK
in the cinefication of the country was also negligible. On one occasion
the society had raised the money for the purchase of some mobile projectors
for rural areas. Nevertheless, in 1931 one commentator described the work
of ODSK in helping the cinefication project as ‘very bad’. He pointed out
that the local ODSK cells dotted around the Soviet map were not
participating at all in the cinefication project and that this was evident in
the high number of projectors in disrepair.18
Nevertheless, while ODSK’s influence was relatively weak, the society
did carry out some useful work in certain areas. The Voronezh branch
could boast success in the production of its own local magazine as well as
the production of two films which it sold to the cinema administration.19
ODSK also played a significant role in educating projectionists to serve
the cinema network throughout the USSR through its correspondence
courses. The society provided an entry point for some young creative
personnel who wanted to make a career in cinema. Yevgeni Andrikanis,
who went on to become one of the USSR’s best-known feature film
cameramen, began his career as a volunteer for ODSK. Mate Galka, an
older friend and member of ODSK’s central council recommended
Andrikanis to the State College of Cinematography. Subsequently,
Andrikanis became a student and never looked back.20
The society’s weakness at carrying out its tasks was, in a similar manner
to ARRK, related to an absence of financial means. Although the Party,
cinema administration and trade unions often referred to the importance
of the society as the main connection to the masses, they were reluctant
to provide it with resources. A certain Mamet, a member of the society’s
central council reported in 1931 that no financial help whatsoever had been
offered by these bodies. He pointed out that, despite their official rhetoric,
Soiuzkino and the central trade union organisation ‘underestimated the
significance’ of the society. The cinema administration clearly regarded
the work of the body as essentially voluntary and failed to accept that its
demands on ODSK had to be backed up with some sort of financial
support.21
Failure to fulfil its mission was also due to weak leadership, poor
organisation and recruitment in the regions and republics. Due to its
voluntary nature, ODSK struggled to establish a strong leadership that
could guide the society. Vladimir Kirshon described ODSK as an ‘army
without a commander’. Indeed, the society’s central council only met
twice a year due to the fact that its leaders had many other priorities to
112 SOVIET CINEMA

deal with.22 The absence of a constantly working leadership might have

been mitigated through closer work with other organisations in the film
industry. Unfortunately, the society’s relations with other bodies were weak.
ARRK and ODSK were less than cooperative with one another. In the
late 1920s there had been a breakdown in communication between
ODSK’s leadership and ARRK. This did not improve much in the early
1930s and ARRK tended to maintain a somewhat dismissive attitude
towards the society. Soiuzkino also failed, not only in offering basic
financial support, but in working with ODSK to help make its work more
effective.
The society had been renamed in 1929 as ODSKF (Society of Friends
of Soviet Cinema and Photography) and then in 1931 as OZPKF (Society
for Proletarian Cinema and Photography). However, these superficial
changes made little impact. The organisation was eventually liquidated
in 1934. The shortcomings of organisation and leadership, as well as
financial problems, undoubtedly played a part in this downfall. But, more
importantly, the Soviet government was increasingly concerned with
achieving mass support for the regime through educating the masses and
much less interested in their active participation or views on Soviet cinema.
Ordinary people were now expected to visit their local cinema not to
engage in a debate, but to hear and absorb carefully prepared points of
view in new Soviet films.

The Union of Cinema Personnel

At the Plenum of VTsSPS (All-Union Central Council of Professional
Unions) in September 1934, it was decided that existing trade unions
would be split into smaller, more representative unions. This affected
Rabis, which would now be divided into two unions: the Union of
Cinema Personnel and the Union of Arts Personnel. At the final Plenum
of Rabis that same month the Union of Cinema Personnel was officially
inaugurated. The union constituted the first Soviet cinema trade union
created to specifically address the needs of cinema personnel.23 To some
extent, the union was created as a reaction to the poor representation
of cinema personnel by Rabis. However, the issue of representation
extended to the broader mass of cinema workers, especially the
thousands of projectionists, who had largely been ignored up until now.
The inclusion of the mass of rank and file cinema workers into the new
union was the logical outcome of the criticisms of ARRK that it was
nothing more than an elite ‘guild’. It also continued the spirit of the
 R EPRESENTATION AND REACH 113

cultural revolution by arguing for the need to be ‘closer to the masses’

and ‘closer to production’.
At its first plenum, the new union set out a series of practical matters
that it would be responsible for dealing with as a trade union. First of
all, this included regulating wages and salaries. The union was charged
with overseeing the implementation of payment by the job in technical
workshops, helping in the selection of the best workers and rewards for
high quality and productivity. It was also responsible for ensuring the
implementation of the law on paying for periods of work stoppage and
for the production of defective products, as well as ensuring that lower
paid professionals, such as cinema actors, received the correct salary.
Secondly, the new union would be responsible for social insurance to
ensure that cinema personnel would have access to basic medical care,
including sanatoria for those with more serious health problems. Finally,
the union was intended to ensure adequate work conditions. This meant
checking the implementation of measures to maintain the health and
safety of its members in every place of work affecting the cinema
industry, from laboratories to studios. It also meant that the union would
protect cinema personnel from carrying out too much overtime while
simultaneously helping to enforce labour discipline.24
Indeed, these planned functions indicated that the union would
engage in a combination of measures aimed at protecting its members
and efforts to mobilise its members to the tasks of the communist regime.
Nevertheless, in time the balance tipped. In the 1930s trade unions
turned increasingly towards mobilising and organising the working class
for the aim of socialist construction and the implementation of Five
Year Plans. The emphasis on protecting their members became much
less significant and the unions became less representative of the
grievances of those members.25 The new cinema union reflected this
context and its first leader, Mikhail Grinberg, stressed the political
mobilising role of the union. Grinberg acknowledged the protective
aspect of the union’s work, but suggested that it would not be purely
reduced to a trade union mentality characteristic of the West, or Russian
trade unions of recent times. Grinberg argued that the trade union
should not be in conflict with the Party or the state. As with all Soviet
trade unions the new cinema union was to help convey the Party message
to the masses.26
The union did certainly make some positive impact on the lives of
cinema personnel. It organised summer rest camps in the Caucasus,
114 SOVIET CINEMA

offering two or four week breaks for 180 or 360 roubles. This was
undoubtedly of great value to those who could afford the expenditure.
The union also made efforts to improve working conditions at studios, as
well as applying pressure when wages or salaries were late or not being
paid at all. However, such protective measures were invariably
accompanied by other demands. These demands often involved helping
the cinema administration implement its orders. For instance, in 1935
the studios in Moscow and Leningrad were found to have incorrectly
spent money assigned to wages. The cinema trade union and GUKF
worked together to deal with the problem. The trade union also assisted
GUKF in its efforts to enforce labour discipline at cinema studios and
enterprises throughout the country, this included the introduction of wage
systems that depended, to some extent, on how well plans were being
carried out.27 As a consequence of the union’s politicised nature, much
of its work that claimed to protect the workers was in fact aimed at getting
more out of them.
Indeed, despite the new concern with the broader mass of workers
within the cinema industry, the work of the trade union aimed at improving
the conditions of its most ubiquitous members, the rural projectionists,
was rather ineffectual. The union’s rhetoric on the importance of the
projectionist and the need to look after his or her needs and demands,
especially labour conditions, had little substance. In practice, the mass of
projectionists in the country lived in poor conditions and often had to
sleep rough with a low income that was less than enough to cover the
costs of accommodation, food and the expense of making the journey
around the countryside with his or her projector for which they received
no extra money. Unfortunately, the cinema trade union did little to improve
the lot of projectionists, such difficult conditions persisted throughout
the 1930s and, as a direct result, the projectionists, who were often very
young, were leaving their jobs in significant numbers to find a better life.28
The trade union also failed to fulfil its promise to help ensure that a
new generation of creative workers would break through in the studios.
As we shall see, the 1930s were a time of great difficulty for aspiring film-
makers who struggled to make a career in the relatively small Soviet film
industry. Once again, regardless of the intentions set out in 1934, the
cinema trade union did not and could not do much to change this situation.
The union was successful in gaining joint control over the newspaper
Kino alongside the cinema administration. Nevertheless, it failed to increase
the frequency of issue from every six days to every three days as it had
 R EPRESENTATION AND REACH 115

planned. It was also clear that, while the trade union’s activities were
given substantially more attention than ODSK had received, the cinema
administration was the more powerful partner in the running of the
newspaper.
Towards the latter part of the 1930s the cinema trade union became
less and less representative of its members. This was particular evident
among creative personnel. In July 1938, Sovnarkom issued a decree that
effectively gave the rights of authorship to the scriptwriter, taking them
away from the director. This represented a strong attack on the artistic
value of the director in Soviet cinema, but the trade union fell notably
silent, showing no support for its director members. This left the directors
with no official organisation with which they could defend and protect
their own interests. The absence of a proper lobbying or bargaining
organisation meant that cinema personnel had to find other means of
presenting their views and arguments to the authorities.
Nonetheless, the absence of a means for lobbying and bargaining
was more of an important issue for some than it was for others. Towards
the end of the decade, a privileged group was emerging among cinema
creative personnel, consisting of largely established film-makers. This
development was evident in many areas, especially that of income.
Although Dukelsky’s salary reforms would soon reduce the incomes of
the broader mass of film-makers, the privileged group would still receive
increased salaries for making politically ‘correct’ films and the promise in
the future of generous pensions which meant that, in practice, the elite
remained fairly wealthy. For instance, for the film Lenin in 1918, director
Mikhail Romm was given a raised salary of 100,000 roubles and his
cameraman Boris Volchek received 30,000 roubles. The same amounts
were given to director Alexander Dovzhenko and cameraman Yuri
Ekelchik for the film Shchors, while director Sergei Yutkevich and
camerman Zhosef Martov received 75,000 and 25,000 roubles
respectively for The Man with a Gun (Chelovek s ruzhem, 1938).29 In each
case the film-makers were being rewarded for producing ideologically
‘sound’ films. In addition, this group enjoyed large budgets for their films.
Instead of spreading limited resources to give outsiders and younger artists
a chance, excessive amounts of money were being used on individual
films and lavish productions which were almost always given to the same
favoured directors.
Rewards also came in other forms too. The privileged group of film-
makers enjoyed extremely comfortable lifestyles compared with most of
116 SOVIET CINEMA

their colleagues in the film industry and the population at large. In the
first place, they lived in spacious, private flats rather than communal
accommodation, which was the norm at this time, and many of them
were given the best cars to drive, usually foreign models such as Ford.
This group was also given opportunities to travel to Europe and America
on official film festival visits or to acquire knowledge of Western
technological developments. These visits were used as unofficial holidays
and to make foreign friends in the industry. These film-makers enjoyed
substantial rest at home. They had access to Party canteens and regularly
engaged in drinking, billiards and card playing.30 They received symbolic
awards of prestige given to film-makers for the quality of their work or
perceived contribution the Soviet film industry, which helped to consolidate
their privileged status. These were similar to those applied across the
board and included ‘the Order of Lenin’, ‘the Order of the Red Banner’,
‘the Order of the Red Star’, as well as prestigious arts awards, such as a
‘People’s Artist’.31
This economic well-being did, to some extent, placate the most
privileged film-makers who, on the whole, were happy to buy into the
Bolsheviks’ defensive outlook by making heavily politicised films to defend
the regime’s past, present and future. Nonetheless, while they enjoyed
economic prosperity, they were often excluded from the process of artistic
and administrative decision-making in the film industry. There were a
few options open to film-makers beyond the official trade unions. They
could make appeals in newspapers, as Eisenstein and his colleagues did
in 1940, concerning the dreadful state of the Institute of Cinematography
in Moscow.32 They could meet the leader of the cinema administration
and his deputies to discuss artistic matters, or questions of industry
organisation. In such cases the film-makers usually struggled to make
themselves heard. Meetings with Semyon Dukelsky in 1938–9 proved to
be extremely difficult as the chairman tended to treat film-makers with
contempt rather than listen to their grievances.33 Later meetings with
Ivan Bolshakov acknowledged the views of cinema personnel, but little
was done in practice to satisfy their concerns. One of the most direct
methods increasingly employed by film-makers in the late 1930s was the
individual or collective letter addressed to the Soviet government or the
general secretary. Following the failure of the cinema trade union to
provide a platform for grievances after the decree that included the clause
on film authorship, the industry’s leading directors came together to write
a letter of protest to Viacheslav Molotov, calling for changes to the new
 R EPRESENTATION AND REACH 117

law.34 Although this proved unsuccessful, the weak protective power of

the trade union meant that letter writing became the only real means by
which creative personnel might be heard. In July 1940 another group of
Soviet film directors wrote to Stalin complaining about pay, ‘wretched’
equipment and a lack of autonomy in the studios.35 It had become
abundantly clear that the trade union had done more to create grievances
rather than defend film-makers from the policies of the government and
cinema administration.
Nonetheless, these complaints did bear some fruit for the elite film-
makers. By the end of the 1930s, government, Party and administrative
leaders recognised the frustrations of artistic personnel being frozen out
of almost all important decision-making. Gradually, some film-makers
were given extremely important roles in the cinema bureaucracy. For
example, in January 1939, the directors Mikhail Chiaureli, Mikhail
Romm, Ilia Trauberg and Vsevolod Pudovkin were all included in the
new Cinema Committee script department, which would have a significant
influence on whether or not scripts would be accepted as potential film
productions.36 Mikhail Romm would also soon become an influential
figure in GUPKhF (Main Administration for the Production of Feature
Films). Subsequently, the film-makers would gain more power in the
studios themselves through the new artistic councils. This sudden increase
in administrative influence would decrease again after the war. However,
these developments reveal that the relationship between the artists and
the government, Party and cinema administration were always complex
and changing. While the privileged group of film-makers broadly did
carry out demands to produce films protective of the regime and its myths,
the artists were not content to simply lead a good life. They too were
concerned about the general development of the industry and the working
conditions within which they had to operate.

The Fate of Creative Personnel: The House of Cinema

The houses of cinema were set up firstly in Leningrad in 1930, in Moscow
during 1934 and other Soviet capitals in later years, although the idea of
establishing them had been proposed by ARK and ODSK in 1928.37
The houses of cinema were established as clubs rather than professional
societies, but given the decline and eventual liquidation of ARRK, they
inevitably adopted many of the functions of that organisation. By the
mid-1930s the houses of cinema were organising viewings and discussions
of old and new Soviet and foreign films, debating industry issues at a
118 SOVIET CINEMA

given time, such as the actor problem. Their planned programmes also
included lectures and discussions on music, art and scripts, as well as
evenings of rest and entertainment characteristic of a club.38
Whereas ARRK maintained a significant degree of independence
until the 1930s, the houses of cinema were subject to control from the
cinema administration, which provided the finances for the organisations,
as well as giving its approval to the houses’ activities. Before its liquidation,
RosARRK ran the everyday affairs of the houses of cinema. When
RosARRK folded in 1935, the creative section of the cinema trade
union took over this responsibility, although the central committee of
the union now controlled the property and budget of the houses of
cinema and participated in the planning of their work alongside the
creative section. Leonid Trauberg summed up the rather feeble
capacities of the creative section by describing it as a ‘still-born baby’.
He pointed out that, despite its shortcomings, ARRK provided a proper
arena for debate and argument that was essential for cinema industry
development. He pointedly suggested that such a powerful creative
forum was essential for film-makers to express their views and ideas to
leading cinema administrators. Trauberg proposed a solution, which
had support from fellow film-makers throughout the industry: they
wanted the recreation of an independent creative union of
cinematographers, as ARRK had once been.39
Such an independent creative union would not emerge until the 1950s.
In the meantime, the houses of cinema were the closest creative personnel
would come to free association. Unfortunately, these organisations did
not provide the lively forum of debate that many wanted. In October
1936, leading cinema personnel from the Moscow House of Cinema
complained that the organisation did not provide them with the
opportunity to participate in a genuine creative exchange. They suggested
that film viewings were almost always followed by concerts and dancing,
attended by a large proportion of individuals who had little to do with
films or the cinema industry in general. Moreover, when interesting
discussions were organised by GUK and the cinema trade union, many
members of the club were not always invited. In 1936 Shumiatsky ordered
the Moscow House of Cinema to end its discussion of a Pravda article,
which involved much criticism of the state of Soviet cinema on the eve
of the 20th anniversary of the October Revolution. This was a clear signal
to film-makers that their desire for free association appeared to be further
than ever from realisation.40
 R EPRESENTATION AND REACH 119

Conclusion
The establishment of unions and societies in Soviet cinema was very
much an ongoing process in the 1920s and 1930s, which reflected the
political, social, economic and cultural changes of the times. In the end
the system of interest representation failed to give adequate support to
either the film-makers or the mass of workers employed in the Soviet
film industry, while the transitory idea of engaging the masses in film
production and assessment came to a swift conclusion in 1934. In the late
1920s up until 1934, the trade union Rabis had been unable to give the
cinema industry the attention it deserved. ARRK struggled to offer a
form of substitute representation, but the association was not established
as a trade union. It had been set up as a professional society with the
function of an interest group aimed at promoting the new art of cinema.
The creation of the new cinema trade union briefly offered hope that
both film-makers and cinema workers’ rights more generally would now
be protected. This largely proved to be an illusion. Another aspect of
film-maker emasculation was the increasing difficulty of engaging in
collective debate. ARRK had once provided such a forum, but this was
effectively ended by the cultural revolution. The establishment of the
houses of cinema in the 1930s again seemed to offer promise of a new
forum for creative workers. As we have seen, in practice they were closer
to social clubs than arenas of intellectual exchange and ferment. The
houses of cinema did replace ARRK to a limited extent, however, as the
themes and debates became subject to control from above, free and open
discussion became harder to achieve. Film-makers were, for much of the
1930s, also excluded from artistic and administrative decision-making.
This began to change, albeit temporarily, in the late 1930s and early
1940s, but film-makers were often forced to adopt what proved to be
ineffectual unofficial channels for lobbying, such as letter writing to
bureaucrats and leading government and Party figures. However, we have
argued that a privileged group of film-makers began to emerge in the
1930s who enjoyed high incomes and a lifestyle that were significantly
better than those of their younger colleagues in the studios who were
struggling to break through. The gap was even wider between the
privileged artists and the rank-and-file workers, such as projectionists.
Not only did these men and women find that the new trade union
intended to represent their interests was more concerned with the
implementation of government and administrative policy, they did not
have the consolation of luxurious flats and trips abroad. The political
120 SOVIET CINEMA

changes of the 1930s imposed a uniformity on cinema personnel

representation, which prevented the proper development of this area.
In the end, narrowing down and centralisation meant that nobody was
adequately protected or represented. By the end of the decade, neither
interest group representation, nor the protection of cinema personnel
rights, nor the availability of a forum for the free exchange of ideas was
satisfactory.
 121

CHAPTER 6

A TALE OF TWO STUDIOS:

MEZHRABPOMFILM AND MOSFILM

T
his chapter will draw a comparison between two studios;
Mezhrabpomfilm during the early to mid-1930s and Mosfilm
towards the end of the decade. By making this comparison it will
be evident how, over a relatively short period of time, centralisation had
such a telling effect on the studios and the nature of film production in
general, taking bureaucracy to absurd levels and threatening the creative
process. The chapter will also examine the fact that hyper-centralisation
essentially failed to develop the film industry and demands from film-
makers to become involved in running production led to reforms at the
turn of the decade. The most important of these reforms was the
emergence of artistic councils in the studios, which gave the film-makers
a powerful means of response. While the councils were in practice not
necessarily purely democratic bodies, the Mosfilm example suggests that
they were still a very positive step forward. Unfortunately, the reforms
were soon gradually reversed. The comparison between the
Mezhrabpomfilm and Mosfilm studios at this time thus serves not only to
show just how bureaucratic the film-making process became, but more
importantly, it reveals just how deeply the Bolshevik defensive mentality
was entrenched and how their lack of flexibility undermined potential
progress.

Studio Administration: The Nature of Film Production in

the 1930s
It is important to point out that film production in the USSR was never
highly efficient. Nonetheless, at the end of the 1920s and during the early
part of the 1930s studios could make films within reasonable time spans.
122 SOVIET CINEMA

A commission investigating the work of Mezhrabpomfilm in 1929 noted

that, on average and in terms of the production period proper, a film
should take around three months to make, although the reality was often
five months.1 Film production began with the script. At this time the studio
heads would either approve scripts that had been submitted to the studio
or they would commission a script from established writers based on an
idea that may have come from within or outside the organisation. This
meant that, while many scripts would deal with specific Bolshevik-
approved issues of the day, there was still a degree of flexibility in terms
of plots and themes.
Yakov Protazanov’s The Feast of Saint Jorgen (Prazdnik sviatogo Iorgena,
1930) provides an illustration of how films were made at this time. The
idea for the film derived from Harald Bergstedt’s novel Factory of the Saints
(1919), an anti-religious work that made an ideal basis for a cinema script
in the USSR at the turn of the decade when campaigns to eliminate
religion reached their height. The development of the script was a slow
process which had initially been considered in 1925, but began as
Protazanov’s own interpretation in the autumn of 1927. It received official
approval by Mezhrabpomfilm’s script department on 5 May 1928 when
the representatives looked to the spring of 1929 as a possible time to
begin production. Two days later it was agreed that Yakov Protazanov
should be the director of the film.2 Although the plan was to provide
Protazanov with a co-author, this did not come to fruition and, in October
1928, the board agreed to pay Protazanov 1500 roubles to write the script
for The Feast of Saint Jorgen.3 In the end, due partly to Protazanov’s busy
schedule and his decision to do the script on his own, it was only completed
towards the autumn of 1929.4 Even at this stage the signs of future political
interference began to surface. In September 1929 the board decreed that
the script would have to gain approval from the League of Militant
Godless, a government-controlled body created to destroy religion, and
ordered Alexander Andrievsky to take responsibility to ensure that
agreement would be reached.5 In addition, the film had to gain approval
of the censor Glavrepertkom and the studio’s artistic council, before
receiving final acceptance from the Mezhrabpomfilm board.
Although the process of filming was not continuous, the main scenes
were shot in the spring of 1930 and, even without precise dates, we can
estimate that the main production itself took around five months to
complete. At a meeting of the Artistic Secretariat in March 1930 a decree
was issued, establishing the release date of the film on the 1 June that
 A T ALE OF TWO STUDIOS 123

year, although it was not actually released until August 1930.6 Yakov
Protazanov’s The Feast of Saint Jorgen is an example of reasonably efficient
film production from a prolific film-maker. This was possible as the process
of checking and approval was, not entirely, but largely in the hands of
the studio where the main decisions were taken.
Moreover, this autonomy stretched right down to the film crews at
Mezhrabpomfilm. In 1934 the studio’s charter stated clearly that the
director was the leader of the film crew, but in addition to his creative
leadership, he/she was also in charge of broad organisational,
administrative, and economic matters It also stated that the administrative
head of the film crew was ‘directly subordinate to the director’.7 This
official recognition of film-maker autonomy had always been part of
Mezhrabpomfilm’s spirit. Indeed, this may well have encouraged the
creative and cooperative atmosphere that prevailed during the making
of films, such as The Feast of Saint Jorgen. Vladimir Shveitser, a co-writer
on several Protazanov films, who was present in Yalta when the outdoor
scenes were being shot, observed Protazanov at work with a large mass
of extras:

It was a joy to watch how at first Protazanov gained the sympathy

of the crowd of thousands, then forced them to become interested
in the course of the scene, individualising each group or the typical
image of the pilgrim.8

Shveitser describes Protazanov’s method of winning over his cast with an

easy-going humour, before explaining the idea behind each scene. This
meant that actors were willing to tolerate even the most difficult working
conditions to successfully complete their parts. Undoubtedly, certain
individuals, such as Protazanov, commanded more veneration than the
average director. Nonetheless, the fact that interference in the film-making
process was still relatively low certainly engendered a milieu of authority
and mutual respect.
As the decade wore on, increasingly rigid thematic plans led to
excessive politicisation of film content and a reduction of freedom in
script ideas and development. Later, following the introduction of the
1938 legislation, the official process of checking and approval became
obsessive. The Bolsheviks wanted to ensure that one of their key means
of ideological defence was fully under Party control. As we have seen,
the control of the script was at the centre of this legislation. Whereas in
124 SOVIET CINEMA

Crowd scene from Protazanov’s Feast of Saint Jorgen (1930).

the early to mid-1930s the script began its life in the studios, by the end
of the decade the first stop for preliminary checks would be the Cinema
Committee’s script department. Fyodor Filippov’s and Valentin
Kadochnikov’s The Magic Pearl (Volshebnoe zerno, 1941) began its journey
on 21 March 1939 when Nikolai Semyonov, the chief editor of Cinema
Committee’s script department gave initial approval to the Mosfilm
project. As with all films at the early checking stage, The Magic Pearl was
 A T ALE OF TWO STUDIOS 125

approved due to its sound ideological and artistic content, but also as a
Soviet fairytale that would be appealing to both children and adults.9
The script would then be passed onto the studio’s script department, which
had often unofficially seen it before the Cinema Committee, but could
now make its own comments or criticisms.
GUPKhF, which was a sub-division of the Cinema Committee, would
then maintain constant control over each film from the pre-production
period until completion. In February 1940, GUPKhF ordered the film-
makers to shorten their movie down to 1800 metres. However, film
directors were often reluctant to carry out large cuts and at least attempted
to avoid making such changes. The directors sent a letter to the deputy
director of Mosfilm, stating that they had cut the film by 538 metres,
bringing its overall length down to 1895 metres. They claimed that they
had fulfilled the demands made by GUPKhF and concluded that a ‘further
cut of the script by 95 metres was impossible because this would bring an
even bigger loss to the overall quality’.10 Unfortunately, Grigori Zeldovich,
the head of GUPKhF, did not accept the directors’ conclusions, arguing
that, while the implemented changes had made the script more compact,
there were still many irregularities. Zeldovich claimed that the length of
each shot in the directors’ script had been calculated incorrectly and that
‘further cuts in the script [were] not only possible, but expedient’.11
All feature films since the mid-thirties had to go through a preparatory
period before the actual filming process itself could begin. This was
intended to weed out any potential difficulties and ensure that actors
were adequately prepared. GUPKhF had to approve the beginning of
the preparatory period, including its cost and time frame. A typical feature
film, such as Yuli Raizman’s Mashenka (1941) would be given approximately
two months to prepare for the production itself.12 GUPKhF also considered
the preparatory period to be important because it gave the film-makers
the opportunity to present a more rigorous production plan and a more
realistic financial estimate for filming costs.
However, in some cases, such as The Magic Pearl, the preparatory period
would take much longer than the norm. The artistic council at Mosfilm
expressed concern over whether or not the ambitious technical demands
of the script could be realised in practice. It thus called for the carrying
out of experimental shots during the preparatory period of the proposed
combined special effects shots to indicate the feasibility of the film-makers’
plans. The studio director, Konstantin Polonsky, asked for special
permission from GUPKhF to allow for this experimentation, pointing
126 SOVIET CINEMA

out that it was necessary to see if the film could work artistically, as well
as to enable the compilation of a general estimate and plan for the actual
filming process. The head of GUPKhF, Alexander Kurianov, approved a
preparatory period lasting until 1 August 1940. The technical complexities
of the experimental shots meant that the preparatory period went on for
much longer than expected. On 26 August 1940, Nikolai Kiva, the new
studio director, wrote another letter to Kurianov requesting a further
extension of the preparatory period, as specialists had not been available
to ensure the success of the combined special effects shots. Kurianov and
other members of the cinema administration approved the extension until
mid-September, but this was not the end of the matter.13 On 19 November
1940, Kiva informed the new head of GUPKhF, Polonsky, that, given
their demands for cuts to the film and the suspension of funding largely
due to uncertainty over the budget for the actual production, the
preparatory period would have to be extended once again until mid-
December.14 Finally, on 7 December, Ivan Bolshakov gave his approval to
a production period lasting from 25 November 1940 until 31 October 1941
with a budget of 2,194 906 roubles. Thus, while the expectation at
Mezhrabpomfilm at the start of the 1930s was that a film could be completed
within three months, by the end of the decade this had extended to nearly
a year. At last, filming of The Magic Pearl seemed to be underway.15
In the early to mid-1930s the studios had a significant level of
autonomy. For example the board at Mezhrabpomfilm, in close
conjunction with the studio’s director, made all the decisions on film
budget, the distribution of resources, the nominaton and salaries of the
film crew as well as decisions on whether a film was ready for production
or release. This all gradually changed as successive cinema administrations
took control of film production and the 1938 decree gave approval to
thorough checking at the top of the cinema administration. In practise
this meant that each film could now only go ahead if it had received
official sanction by the Cinema Committee chairman. This authorisation
would be sent to the given studio and included several strict criteria. The
filming process was to fully conform to the approved director’s script and
the agreed set design, it would include a financial estimate for every film
to which the film crew had to strictly adhere, it nominated the film
producer, director and cameraman, as well as their assistants, it gave the
film crew a precise thermal coefficient for their given film stock to prevent
it from excessive expansion or contraction and, finally, the authorisation
laid down a specific period of time for the project, including a submission
 A T ALE OF TWO STUDIOS 127

date for the completed film.16

Yet, even the final approval of the director’s script by the chairman
of the Cinema Committee did not always mean that the script would
remain the same in the final product. After 1938, the film production
process itself was subject to further scrutiny and, as a result, further
changes. After the preparatory period, GUPKhF kept a close eye on
production to ensure that film-makers adhered to approved director’s
scripts, budgets, time limits and so on. If it was unsatisfied with any aspect
of a film production it could take punitive action or report the matter to
the Cinema Committee chairman. For example, the production of the
film Gold (Zoloto) which was later renamed The Lad from the Taiga (Paren iz
taigi, 1941) was dogged by a series of problems, including some that were
beyond the film-maker’s control, such as lack of access to basic studio
facilitites. The cinema administration and its chairman were unsatisfied
with the ideological and artistic depiction of some of the film’s main
characters, which meant that scenes had to be shot again. GUPKhF also
rejected the words for some of the songs that were to appear in the film.
When Bolshakov gave his assessment of the situation, he, of course, did
not criticise representatives from the cinema administration. On the
contrary, it was usually studio heads and the film crew who bore the blame
for failure to implement production plans.17
In January 1941 the artistic council at Mosfilm decided that the filmed
material for The Magic Pearl should be examined before proceeding any
further. On 31 January 1941, the studio director, Kiva, the artistic head
of the studio Eisenstein, alongside other members of the artistic council
and the film crew, gathered to watch the first shots from the film. The
quality of the work was considered to be unsatisfactory. On a fundamental
level, the early shots of film were considered to lack the distinctive features
of the fairy tale style and this was not helped by the poor work of the
actress playing Katerina, who was subsequently dismissed. The studio
and committee representatives pointed out that the camera work was
also unsatisfactory in that the poor use of light made what should have
been joyful scenes seem rather grim. The poor quality of the sound
recording was regarded as a further serious shortcoming, as it ruined the
potentially strong music score composed by Lev Shvarts. The
representatives suggested that the early work would have to be filmed
again and the film-makers given more time to adequately prepare,
ensuring that all the aforementioned problems would be properly
addressed, before any further work could take place.18
128 SOVIET CINEMA

In April 1941, the director’s script of The Magic Pearl was subject to
yet more scrutiny by Moisei Aleinikov, who now found himself in a very
different film production context in Mosfilm’s script department. He
demanded yet further changes to the ending.19 Subsequently, in 23 May
and June 1941 further meetings took place at the studio, attended once
again by the studio director Groshev, Eisenstein, Aleinikov, representatives
of the Cinema Committee, the film’s directors and its cameraman, where
more changes and monitoring of the sketches and the set construction
were approved.20 This sort of intervention was the norm for all films and
not only those being produced by young film-makers in need of guidance.
Moreover, the significant involvement of studio artistic and script experts
revealed more than a concern for ensuring a high-quality end product.
The sort of changes demanded by both administrators and artists suggests
a desire for creative input that may have reflected a context of creative
frustration and the domination of procedure and bureaucracy. Finally,
the proper production process could soon begin.
Therefore, by the end of the 1930s the central characteristic of Soviet
film production was the bureaucratic process of checking and approval
at every stage. The aforementioned examples were just some of the main
points of this process, but by no means present the full picture. Although
the bodies doing the checking changed from time to time, we can
summarise the basic process as follows: first the scriptwriter would have
to present his/her work to the script department of the Cinema
Committee, if approved it would also be sent to the studio’s script
department. The director would then devise his own version of the script
ready for film production. This script would then undergo a parallel,
rigorous series of checks carried out by numerous departments in the
cinema administration and in the studio, although authority and
monitoring ultimately rested with the Cinema Committee. Most
significantly, the chairman of the the Cinema Committee would have to
give personal approval to each and every film. After this, any necessary
changes would be made and the cast and budget prepared, before the
film could be set into production.21 A senior secret police representative
would later note the concerns of film-makers at the desperate problems
of obsessive checking. He noted the scriptwriter Mikhail Bleiman’s
comments that there were a minimum of twelve points of approval for a
script, before it could get to the production stage. In the same report the
director, Sergei Yutkevich, referred to the ‘monstrous bureaucracy’ that
was destroying Soviet cinema. He noted that in the late 1920s bureaucrats
 A T ALE OF TWO STUDIOS 129

were in the minority compared to film-makers. Now he claimed that the

balance had shifted in favour of the bureaucrats.22 Yutkevich was
describing Bolshevik forms of industrial organisation that were created
under the guidance of a defensive mentality. In cinema the domination
of bureaucrats over artists reflected the obsession with the type of films
being produced and the extent to which film-making had become
politicised. It was this very bureaucracy intended to defend a certain
political outlook that was crippling Soviet film production.

The Role of Studio Directors/Resources/Discipline

The Mezhrabpomfilm charter of 1934 stated ‘the director of the factory
[studio] is in charge of the entire artistic-creative, production,
administrative, economic, financial and managerial activity of the factory’.
As indicated, this meant that, in conjunction with the Mezhrabpomfilm
board, the director dealt with all the key aspects, including establishing
the basic structure and organisation of the studio, making the decisions
on resource distribution, the employment/dismissal of administrative/
artistic personnel, scrutiny and approval of thematic and financial plans.
Moreover, the studio directors over the years, such as Moisei Aleinikov
and Francesco Misiano, were usually influential members of, or had been
in charge of the Mezhabpomfilm board. Thus the studio directors were
individuals with power and influence. It is also important to point out
that, throughout the studio, the deputy directors, as well as the heads of
the various departments, had real autonomy and were trusted to carry
out the tasks for which they were responsible.23
In addition, to the powers of independent decision-making,
Mezhrabpomfilm maintained a degree of efficiency by providing
incentives to its studio directors to ensure faster movie production. An
interesting example of this can be found in the case of studio director
and Mezhrabpomfilm board member Moisei Aleinikov. Aleinikov had
gained a reputation as a high-level film industry administrator. A
contributory factor to this may have been an agreement he had with the
organisation whereby for every film successfully completed and released
Aleinikov received a bonus of 500 roubles, although these bonuses were
capped at an annual sum of 15,600 roubles a year.24 In addition, Aleinikov
received a monthly salary of 800 roubles, as well as a further bonus of
1000 roubles for certain films with particular artistic, ideological and
commercial significance.
However, towards the latter part of the decade, the studio directors
130 SOVIET CINEMA

found that their autonomy had eroded and that they had become middle
men responsible for the implementation of orders handed down from
the cinema administration. Most correspondence from the cinema
administration concerning film production would be addressed to the
director of a given studio and, in a similar manner, film-maker responses
or requests also had to be filtered through the director. As well as being
expected to ensure the successful implementation of plans imposed from
above, the director would receive an annual demand from the cinema
administration to provide a studio plan for a given year, including
comprehensive statistics, inventories and so on. The director then ordered
individual departmental heads within the studio to provide clear accounts
to date and plans for the foreseeable future. As he had been previously,
the director was also responsible for the more important everyday matters
involved in running a studio, ranging from the provision of
accommodation for creative and administrative personnel to the
implementation of fire safety procedures.
The absence of studio director power was most evident in a financial
sense. In the early 1930s the principle of khozraschet (economic
accountability) was introduced in studios throughout the USSR, including
Mezhrabpomfilm. This meant that they were, to a large extent, intended
to be self-supporting on the basis of money from film distribution which
would be carefully managed on a cost-effective basis. In 1938 this was
brought to a swift end and replaced by a system whereby the studios
would have to hand over their turnover to the Cinema Committee for
‘redistribution’. Each studio was now mainly dependent on GUPKhF for
all of its production funding.25 By the end of the decade the command
system of economic management had reached absurd levels. For example,
if the studio wanted to make even small expenditures that were not
foreseen in production plans and estimates, they had to obtain
administrative approval. In January 1941 Mosfilm director, Kiva, wrote
a letter to Ivan Bolshakov requesting permission to pay director Yuli
Raizman 15,000 roubles for his contribution to the script for the film.26
Under the new centralised system of financial distribution, the studios
constantly had to request funds from the cinema administration. Most
transactions would have to be ordered or approved by a GUPKhF letter,
depriving the studio director of meaningful financial autonomy.
In the latter part of the 1930s, the director would always be forced to
accept cinema administration decisions. Indeed, studio policies would
often reflect those of the industry heads and micromanagement from the
 A T ALE OF TWO STUDIOS 131

centre filtered down the chain of command to the very production process.
However, it is important to remember that this bureaucratic subservience
was inevitable given the constant threat of arrest due to perceived or real
failure to fulfil often unrealistic plans. This was especially true in the late
1930s. Alexander Anninsky, a leading film administrator (the equivalent
of a producer in the West) recalls in his diary, as he worked on the filming
of Stepan Razin (1938) in the summer of 1937, that the then Mosfilm
director, Elena Sokolovskaia, would constantly send telegrams demanding
full justifications for overexpenditures and delays while Anninsky would
frequently have to ask for resources and permission to make organisational
decisions. Sokolovskaia reminded Anninsky that the film was ‘politically
important’ especially as it was part of the anniversary celebration of the
October Revolution.27 However, as the film, and others that were being
produced at the time, continued to take excessive amounts of time and,
due to the vast sums of money that were being spent, the political pressure
on Sokolovskaia increased until her arrest in the autumn of 1937. Her
replacement, the aforementioned Konstantin Polonsky, arrived from the
ranks of the NKVD as part of the attempt to ‘sort out’ the problems of
the film industry.
Studio directors of the Polonsky mould were even gladder to carry
out unpopular measures from above, such as the series of personnel cuts
and tough measures that were taken at the turn of the decade. At this
time the studios saw a rationalisation process whereby departments were
either closed or reorganised, leading to many job losses. While at
Mezhrabpomfilm earlier in the decade, the studio director was firmly in
control of the hiring and dismissal of his/her own personnel. Studio
directors were now powerless to stop Ivan Bolshakov from dismissing
several extremely talented individuals, including Viktor Turin who made
the remarkable Turksib (1929), Kote Mikaberidze who created the film
My Grandmother, one of the best Soviet films of the late 1920s, and Mosfilm’s
Nikolai Ekk who was under suspicion following the rejection on ideological
grounds of his incompleted film Bluebird (Siniaia ptitsa), but who had
established himself as first-rate director. Vladimir Shneiderov, who was
firmly committed to the ‘cinema for the millions’ project with such high
quality films as Dzhulbars (1935) was demoted to work on educational
films at Mostekhfilm, while Alexander Ivanov (who would later attract
political controversy) was to be placed under close observation.28
This rigid top-down chain of command inevitably influenced the
process of film production. In contrast to the order and harmony that
132 SOVIET CINEMA

characterised the making of The Feast of Saint Jorgen in 1930, the film-
making process became fraught with both petty and serious conflict.
Personality clashes undoubtedly played a significant role, however, the
gradual erosion of creative autonomy fostered an atmosphere of
frustration and led to a proliferation of yet more defensive strategies,
the most significant of which was refusal to carry out orders or particular
tasks. In chief administrator Alexander Anninsky’s diary we learn that
he had to deal with an uncooperative attitude from the directors Olga
Preobrazhenskaia and Ivan Pravov during the making of Stepan Razin.
However, the breakdown in relations between administrators and artistic
personnel was partly due to the constant interference by the former
into the creative process, with demands for script changes in the middle
of production, or complaints about the ideological direction of a
particular character. The once clear authority of the film director in all
matters had now vanished and this led to endless conflict over who was
in charge of a given area. This in turn caused a breakdown in leadership.
It was felt within the film crew as a whole and resulted in unprofessional
behaviour. For example, during the filming of Stepan Razin, constant
heavy drinking, especially amongst administrators and actors, day and
night, caused a great deal of conflict, leading on one occasion to physical
confrontation between Andrei Abrikosov, who was playing the role of
Razin, and several colleagues from the crew. Actors continued to delay
production by failing to learn their lines and sometimes not turning up
on time.29 Judging by Anninsky’s description of other film productions
in the late 1930s, it is clear that this sort of chaos had almost become
the norm.
There were still efforts though to maintain a facade of order. Even
when Mosfilm was temporarily merged with Lenfilm at Alma-Ata in 1941,
when war with Germany began, the studio’s director, Tikhonov, ensured
that the system of studio discipline introduced by Semyon Dukelsky would
be re-established. Although the studio was now located far away from
the centre, Tikhonov ordered the continued use of registration tables to
closely monitor the arrival and departure of all studio personnel. Everyday
a registration count would be passed on to the planning department at
ten o’clock, indicating the number of individuals at work and a list of
absentees and latecomers, with surnames, occupations and reasons
provided for absence or lateness. Delays in the film production process
caused by unjustified absence would be noted in the daily register and
disciplinary measures would be taken accordingly.30
 A T ALE OF TWO STUDIOS 133

Still of Andrei Abrikosov from the film Stepan Razin (1938).

The Artistic Council

Having looked at the role of the studio director it is clear that the chain
of command was very much top down. However, the film-makers were
not satisfied with the lack of studio autonomy from the cinema
bureaucracy and, as we have seen in chapter one, dissatisfaction from
below prompted the reforms that led to the creation of artistic councils
in the studios. Artistic councils had some history prior to their
reestablishment at the end of the 1930s. In the Mezhrabpomfilm studio
during the 1920s the artistic council was simply a branch of the
organisation’s board that made decisions, concerning artistic matters.
However, in 1928 the government required the artistic councils in studios
to have political representatives from outside the studio. In May 1928,
Mezhrabpomfilm established a new artistic council which included
representatives from the Party’s Central Committee, the local Party cell,
Agitprop, Glavrepertkom, ODSK, Gosplan and relevant trade union
organisations. This body was responsible for approving scripts received
from the script department and the film itself during and after
production.31 Nevertheless, the council’s decision-making presidium
134 SOVIET CINEMA

consisted of Mezhrabpomfilm board members Moisei Aleinikov, Boris

Malkin and Grigori Arustanov, as well as two representatives of creative
personnel in Yakov Protazanov and Osip Brik. They retained the real
power while the political figures were essentially advisors. So the artistic
councils had existed before, albeit with artistic representatives in the
minority. However, by the mid-1930s they had faded away perhaps due
to the fact that political monitoring from other institutions became so
stringent that they were no longer required.
The new artistic councils, which were to be composed of artistic
personnel in order to redress the power balance, took some time to
establish themselves in all the studios. After carrying out a check of the
early work of the artistic councils, Ivan Bolshakov declared that Mosfilm
and Lenfilm had failed to fulfil the task of attracting creative personnel
to actively participate in the new councils. As a direct consequence,
meetings had been held on an irregular basis, lacking leadership and
organisation. Bolshakov decreed that in order to realise their central goal
of ‘raising the ideological-artistic quality of films’, the new bodies would
have to be more professional in approach. From now on each studio
director would have to ensure that the artistic councils would meet every
week on a particular day and at a specific time, keeping a record of each
gathering. Bolshakov clarified the precise function of the councils. They
included discussing and approving director’s scripts, dealing with actor
auditions, examining sketches for sets and costumes, scrutinising a given
director’s production plan and, in certain cases, looking at rehearsed
scenes. Before a film project could be passed onto the Cinema Committee
for final approval, the artistic councils had to provide that committee
with their overall conclusion on the ideological-artistic quality of a given
film. During the filming process itself artistic councils were expected to
‘periodically’ examine and discuss various shots, as well as provide an
analysis of the work of all the leading personnel involved in the production.
In addition to all this, the artistic councils were expected to discuss studio
thematic plans and consider the most appropriate director for each film.
Finally, the artistic councils were to pay particularly close attention to
film productions, involving younger personnel, checking their work more
thoroughly and providing them with creative help.32
The artistic councils provided, for a short time at least, a crucial
counterbalance to the dogmatic ideological demands of the political
leadership and, to some extent the Cinema Committee. As we have seen,
the artistic council certainly played its own role in the film checking and
 A T ALE OF TWO STUDIOS 135

approval process. However, its members were usually experienced

cinematographers whose criticisms were often of great artistic value to
film-makers. In late 1940 the artistic council gathered to discuss Ivan
Pyrev’s proposed film The Swineherdess and the Shepherd. At this point the
script was very much at an early stage of development and, as a result,
received a significant amount of criticism. Although the broad consensus
was that the project would be interesting and had potential, members of
the council, including Grigori Alexandrov, argued that the script was badly
structured and that some elements had not been written with the
specificities of cinema in mind. Overall, the council concluded that the
songs and the dialogue were unsatisfactory and that a strong composer
would be required to sort things out.33
The artistic council rarely enforced dogmatic political changes to films.
Indeed, its views were frequently at odds with Bolshevik politicians and
administrators. The differences in outlook between film-makers and
administrators were most graphically illustrated in the case of Konstantin
Yudin’s film The Hearts of Four. With the exception of a few minor criticisms,
the film received high acclaim from the artistic council. Members of the
council praised the high quality of acting due in part to Yudin’s careful
work with his cast. But, most important of all, the artistic council expressed
delight that Yudin had achieved something rare in the context of current
Soviet films: a high-quality romantic comedy which would almost certainly
achieve popular success. Yudin was extremely grateful to the council for
its favourable reception of the film, especially as he had to endure long
delays while bureaucrats in the Cinema Committee made cuts to his script
or demanded that he continue filming without a key actress or indeed the
correct equipment for the production.34 In February 1941 the artistic
council gave its final approval and this was followed in March by the
consent of Groshev, the studio director, allowing it to be presented to the
Cinema Committee. It appears that the film was on the verge of release
as a review praising the movie had already appeared in Ogonek (Little Light),
a weekly illustrated magazine, in early May 1941. However, the film had
yet to pass through the Party’s Central Committee. Party figures, led by
Andrei Zhdanov, took the opposite view to the artistic council. As we
have seen, in a decree issued on 26 May 1941 the film was banned and
accused of failing to reflect Soviet reality and, instead, depicting life as
‘idle’ and ‘frivolous’.35 The contrast between the more liberal attitudes of
the senior film-makers and the defensive dogma emanating from the Party
leaders could not have been greater. Unfortunately, the latter tended to
136 SOVIET CINEMA

prevail while film-makers struggled to support productions that did not

to conform to rigid Bolshevik formulas.
Mosfilm’s artistic council also took advantage of its other powers. It
discussed the studio’s own annual thematic plans and would recommend
potential film-makers to work on each production. The difficulty was
that the artistic council of Mosfilm involved many of the studio’s leading
film-makers. This was especially problematic when it got involved in the
studio cuts of 1940–41. These individuals alongside studio administrators
were responsible for dismissing or transferring seventeen members of
artistic personnel. Unsurprisingly, those affected were mainly younger
film-makers who had struggled to break through.36 In some cases these
cuts may have been justified, it is also fair to point out that certain younger
film-makers, such as Filippov and Kadochnikov, received significant help
and advice from Eisenstein and Roshal. However, it was remarkable that
senior film-makers could have a central role in deciding the fate of their
colleagues who also represented potential future competition for
production resources. In this way the artistic councils helped senior film-
makers secure for themselves, or colleagues, prestigious film projects from
existing thematic plans. Thus, while overall artistic councils were an
important development, they were not purely liberalising or democratising
institutions.
The power of the new artistic councils was particularly evident as
they were effectively in charge of artistic affairs in the studios. Studio
decrees concerning film production and correspondence between the
studios and the cinema administration would be either signed by or
addressed to the studio director or his deputy and the artistic leader, such
as Eisenstein at Mosfilm. So the advent of artistic councils in the studios
had effectively created a dual power structure whereby film-makers on
the studio level had a real say in the production process. But we must also
acknowledge that, due to the reforms, the dividing line between artistic
and administrative personnel was not always clear. As noted above, in
the cinema administration Ilia Trauberg became an important figure in
that body’s script department while Mikhail Romm became deputy head
of GUPKhF. Other film-makers, such as Vladimir Vainshtok and Boris
Dubrovsky-Eshke occupied senior administrative positions at Mosfilm.
For most of the 1930s all the Soviet studios had been mainly controlled
by administrative personnel. The advent of artistic councils and the
appointment of senior film-makers into significant positions of authority
thus seemed to provide them with the participation that they demanded.
 A T ALE OF TWO STUDIOS 137

Unfortunately, the obsession with defending ideology in cinema meant

that these reforms were gradually diluted. In reaction to the cases of
ideological indifference of the artistic councils, Ivan Bolshakov included
Party activists among their numbers to ensure greater political control.37
A similar pattern emerged several years later with the creation of an
artistic council in the Cinema Committee itself. Once again, directors,
actors and composers dominated the initial grouping. However, following
the ideological controversy surrounding the film A Great Life (Bolshaia zhizn,
1940), the artistic council never even began work with those members. It
was only in 1949 that committee’s council properly started to operate,
this time dominated by bureaucrats and including only two directors out
of its thirty-nine members. Bolshakov knew that liberalisation was essential
for a Soviet cinema industry verging on paralysis, yet his and the
government’s preoccupation with ideological correctness undermined the
reforms.38
The reversal of the reforms was made explicit in a letter from Mikhail
Romm to Stalin in January 1943. Romm pointed out that the reforms
marked what he and his colleagues had perceived as a ‘new epoch in
cinema’ in that the gap between the cinema leadership and the film-
makers had finally been bridged. Yet Romm suggested that initial hopes
had been dashed. He pointed out that despite his appointment as deputy
head of GUPKhF, all decisions were being made without his input. Romm
noted that this also affected other studio artistic heads who were being
ignored by Bolshakov and the cinema administration hierarchy. It was
clear not only that there had been a reversal of the earlier reforms, but
that a significant retreat had in fact taken place.39

Conclusion
The comparison between Mezhrabpomfilm in the early 1930s and
Mosfilm at the end of the decade provides us with an important insight
into the Soviet studio system and the problems of the cinema industry
more generally at this time. Overall, we have seen that the 1930s saw the
gradual centralisation of cinema, reaching extreme proportions in 1938.
The reform of studio organisation in 1940 was, to some extent, recognition
of the fact that hyper-centralisation was paralysing production and, by
giving senior film-makers real powers, it would satisfy their grievances
and help to revitalise the stagnating industry. The reforms were certainly
not ideal. They only really gave participation to senior film-makers which,
on one hand, did mean studio creative personnel could rely on their
138 SOVIET CINEMA

experience and qualified advice. On the other hand, there was no change
to the essentially bureaucratic nature of script and film approval which
appeared to be as elaborate as it had been in recent times. The artistic
council at Mosfilm began with a liberal attitude towards films with
questionable Soviet credentials, not entirely predictable given the political
loyalty of many of the film-makers in the council. The reaction from
above was again defensive in nature. The Bolshevik obsession with their
ideology being potentially undermined or ignored meant that the reforms
were slowly reversed as artistic councils fell under stricter Party control.
The Bolshevik defensive mentality which had guided the rise of a tightly
controlled Soviet cinema had resurfaced, undermining the initially brave
efforts at liberalisation.
 139

CHAPTER 7

FILM EDUCATION AND TRAINING

T
he Bolsheviks wanted Soviet cinema to be an effective mass
medium of propaganda and persuasion. Yet, for such a cinema
to materialise, a new generation of educated artistic personnel
would have to be established. Although by the end of the 1920s several
Soviet film-makers had gained recognition throughout the world, Party
and administrative leaders wanted to foster the rise of young, new, loyal
and politically committed film-makers, who could be relied upon to
establish the envisaged ‘cinema intelligible to the millions’ alongside their
‘re-educated’ peers. This meant the creation of a new cinema for the
masses that would combine the political message with entertainment,
rejecting the idea of cinema as an elite or intellectual art form. In this
context, examining the development of Soviet film education from the
end of the 1920s through the 1930s will provide us with a better
understanding of industry development during these years and the precise
contribution education made to the evolution of a truly Soviet cinema,
which was intended to play a central role in the legitimisation of the
communist regime and its ideological goals.

The Origins of Soviet Film-maker Education and the

Requirements of the Industry
Following the October Revolution, various attempts were made to establish
basic film courses of an artistic nature in a few of the main urban centres
of the USSR. It was GTK (State College of Cinematography), in Moscow,
which would become dominant by the end of the 1920s, overcoming
competition from SEI (School of Screen Arts) in Petrograd, which
eventually disbanded, and a series of attempts to establish basic film
courses in the Ukraine, including the Odessa State College of
140 SOVIET CINEMA

Cinematography aimed at actors and cameramen. In Leningrad the TSI

(College of Stage Arts) opened in 1926, but it only prepared cinema
actors. The other specialist areas were now dealt with in Moscow. In
1930 the Odessa State College of Cinematography was transferred to
Kiev and merged with the small Cinema Photographic Institute to become
the Kiev Cinema Institute (later renamed as the Ukrainian Institute of
Cinematography).1 GTK had initially been established as a vocational
‘tekhnikum’, reflecting the fact that cinema had yet to prove itself as an
area worthy of academic treatment. GTK had to endure shortages of
funding and thus had difficulty in providing the most basic equipment,
attracting committed staff and offering a curriculum that went beyond
an emphasis on acting. The School’s first proper graduation ceremony
only took place in 1927, pointing to the extent of its early developmental
problems.2 At the end of the 1920s, the Party and leading figures
throughout the cinema industry called on GTK to produce a new
generation of artistically, technically and politically trained young men
and women. However, this task would prove to be far more difficult than
many imagined.

Political Control, Administration and Resources

Throughout the 1920s, Narkompros was responsible for GTK. In 1930,
Soiuzkino, the new centralised cinema administration, was given control
of the establishment. First of all, it implemented the Soviet government’s
order to elevate the tekhnikum to the status of an institute. Under
Soiuzkino’s successor, GUKF, the institution was structurally reorganised
once again. In 1934, under the leadership of the cinema administration
chairman Boris Shumiatsky, GIK (State Institute of Cinematography)
became VGIK (Higher State Institute of Cinematography). As part of
this general reorganisation, NIKFI (Scientific Research Cinema
Photographic Institute), had already been incorporated into GIK’s
structure and a film library and historical archive established. In 1933,
GUKF had also decreed the establishment of postgraduate study at the
Institute, which became a reality in 1934. In 1934, the engineering-
economic faculty and the acting faculties were liquidated. Acting schools
were temporarily established in the studios until the end of the decade
when the discipline was returned to the Institute. Finally, in 1939 the
State Institute changed back to a standard VUZ (Higher Education
Establishment) once again with the same abbreviated title VGIK (All-
Union State Institute of Cinematography). Throughout the decade, the
 FILM EDUCATION AND TRAINING 141

cinema administration was more concerned with these broader questions

of structure, organisation, planning and development rather than
micromanaging the Institute.3
The cinema administration did have the power to appoint the director
of the Institute and give approval to important decisions, including those
that concerned course content. But in practice leaders and teachers were
given a great deal of autonomy in devising such content and in the day-
to-day running of the Institute. Lecturers were expected to produce their
own detailed programmes, which would then be approved by the director
of the Institute and then the cadres department at Soiuzkino. Judging by
the intellectual freedoms granted to figures, such as Sergei Eisenstein and
Vladimir Nilsen, administration approval was essentially a formality.
Moreover, lecturers and professors were often appointed on the basis of
their reputation in the cinema industry rather than their perceived political
reliability. The Institute was also responsible for maintaining its own
budget, obtaining loans, creating estimates, issuing student grants
and lecturer salaries. It dealt with other everyday matters, including
discipline of students and lecturers who might be failing to fulfil
their obligations.
The policies of the cinema administration were, to a large extent,
reflective of broader developments in the USSR from 1928. At this time
the aforementioned ‘cultural revolution’ began and had a significant
impact on Soviet education generally. The call for the establishment of a
new generation of highly trained proletarian specialists provoked a shift
in educational policy towards securing for men and women from this
background a significant quota of guaranteed places in higher education
institutions and introducing a utilitarian approach that emphasised the
connection between learning and industrial production. Although this
policy was reversed from 1932 because of its failure to produce high-
quality specialists, we can identify a general shape and direction for Soviet
education in this period, as it moved towards central control, planning
and standardisation. The mid-to-late 1930s saw the return of traditional
academic standards in universities and a general re-establishment of
hierarchical indicators in the form of ranks and orders. But, at the same
time, the emphasis on vocational practicality, the expansion of student
numbers and quicker graduation coexisted with traditional academic
approaches and remained central to the Soviet VUZ system.4
To some extent, the problematic relationship between the cinema
administration and the Institute in the late 1920s and early 1930s was
142 SOVIET CINEMA

due to the imposition of cultural revolution policies. This relationship

shifted between consensus and conflict. Some of its practical policies may
have leaned towards a utilitarian approach, but if they were in the interests
of industry development, they would get support from cinema education
personnel. Broad agreement was reached on the need to ensure close ties
between cinema education and film production during the early 1930s,
but disputes did arise in relation to the enforcement of the worker and
peasant quotas which meant that the quality of graduates being sent to
the studios was unacceptable.
On 11 January 1929, a Central Committee decree had been
promulgated (as noted in chapter one) which would have an impact on
cinema education. The decree entitled: ‘On the Strengthening of Cinema
Cadres’, was intended not only to encourage the training of a new younger
generation of graduates, but also to ensure that those graduates would
predominantly be of a working-class or peasant background. The
proletarian and peasant personnel elements in cinema were to be
guaranteed by giving these groups a 75 per cent quota in the Institute
and the minor cinema schools.5 Initially, this policy was supported within
the Institute. Eisenstein, himself favoured the move but, along with many
colleagues, he changed his mind when in practice the idea proved
unworkable.
This measure had an immediate impact on the social composition of
the establishment. In 1930 the number of workers and peasants had
already reached the 76 per cent mark and this trend would continue over
the next two years.6 In 1929 the number of students at GTK had reached
400 but, during the cultural revolution, the quota policy almost led to a
doubling of the student contingent, which stood at 719 by 1932.7
Throughout this period, government policy guided Soiuzkino, but
although it was concerned with the wider questions of organisation, when
the cinema administration did intervene in day-to-day affairs, it was usually
in a clumsy and ineffective manner. It made life very difficult for the
Institute by demanding large student quotas, but without providing the
funding to maintain such a high number of individuals. Soiuzkino
sometimes intervened in financial matters by determining how many
student grants would be available for each faculty. It usually offered the
Institute enough to support only a fraction of the student numbers that it
demanded to see in the institution. Indeed, economic conflicts between
the administration and the Institute were the most problematic, with many
of their disputes reaching the courts. On one occasion, the director of
 FILM EDUCATION AND TRAINING 143

the Institute excluded a series of students on the basis of failing to meet

the most basic conditions of study, which meant attending, preparing for
and participating in classes. Dogmatically enforcing the government’s
quota policy, Soiuzkino’s cadres sector issued an order demanding their
reinstatement without properly consulting the heads of the Institute, who
were then forced to exclude the students once again.8 Thus while the
cinema administration generally allowed the Institute to run itself, when
it did intervene, it often did so in an ill-informed manner, thereby provoking
unnecessary conflict.
Eventually, by 1934, a broad consensus emerged between both
Soiuzkino and the Institute that the admission of predominantly worker
and peasant students had been a failure. Although the idea of granting
opportunity to the less privileged may have initially held some appeal, it
meant that the average student had a far poorer level of education than
in the past. As a result, most of the students struggled to understand the
academically challenging lectures given by figures such as Eisenstein,
whose cross-disciplinary approach required a broad basic knowledge of
theatre, art and literature. Indeed, this was one of the central reasons for
the high dropout rate of students, which rose from 23 per cent in 1932 to
a peak of 52 per cent in 1935, as remaining proletarians and peasants
were removed and sent to work in other branches of industry.9 In terms
of the students who remained, the quota policy led to a significant drop
in standards and a consequent wave of ill-prepared graduates. These
aspects of quota policy impact were certainly not unique to cinema and
reflected the reaction of the education sector more generally at this time.
Nonetheless, they formed part of a general malaise in cinema education
during the 1930s, which would have serious consequences for the film
industry in particular.
The two sides agreed that the student body would have to be
significantly cut and that the quality of future graduates would have to
be greatly improved. The solution, mainly drawn up by Institute director
Nikolai Lebedev, proposed the establishment of an elite academy which,
with the exception of the cinematography faculty, would offer shorter
two-year specialist courses aimed at individuals who had already received
a higher education and had worked in cinema as assistants or in other
branches of the arts.
As a result of the new direction, worker and peasant admissions to
the Institute began to decrease and by 1935 the student population had
dramatically fallen, reaching 230 in that year. Indeed, the number of
144 SOVIET CINEMA

graduates was even less, touching fifty one in 1936. VGIK, as it became
known, remained an academy until 1939 when this temporary status was
ended and it became a standard VUZ once more. The academy years,
however, had shaped its basic future direction, which would continue to
emphasise professionalism and standards. The cinema administration
could have blamed the Soviet government for the quota policy, yet, due
to a weak estimate of its own financial power and a lack of research and
communication, the stark truth was that Soiuzkino itself had almost no
idea of how many students were required to satisfy the demand within
the cinema industry or what that demand was. It only belatedly
acknowledged that its estimates had grossly exaggerated personnel
requirements in the film sector.10
Indeed, the establishment of the Institute as an academy would, it
was hoped, address one of the central problems that had plagued Soviet
film education from its inception and throughout the 1930s: its financial
poverty and the lack of adequate resources. In the first place, the premises
of the Institute were a source of considerable difficulty. Since 1923, the
Institute had been situated in what was previously the famous ‘Iar’
restaurant in Moscow. The existing building had a limited number of
rooms mostly with poor lighting, an occasionally leaking roof, bad
ventilation and a broken central heating system.11 Despite the promise of
more funding before and after being given academy status, lecturers and
students had to endure the same building until 1939. In that year the
government assigned five million roubles for the construction of a new
building, which would include more lecture theatres, four filming areas
and a huge gym.12 Unfortunately, this plan was slow to materialise and
the same old difficulties continued for many years.
Living and study conditions were extremely challenging issues for the
majority of students who wanted to make a career for themselves in the
Soviet cinema industry. One of the Institute’s main hostels in Moscow
was less than adequate. There were no toilets in the building, the walls
had not been plastered and the rooms were filthy. Students were given
used mattresses that had not been disinfected and this was compounded
by the general threat of disease due to the fact that the building was
‘swarming with parasites’. Moreover, there were no tables and chairs, as
well as an absence of light, making study very difficult. Cultural activity
of any kind was also lacking within the Institute itself and there was no
reading room. The somewhat spartan facilities were summed up by the
Institute’s single shop, which could only offer biscuits and cigarettes.13
 FILM EDUCATION AND TRAINING 145

Throughout the 1930s, lecturers and students had to endure more

than shoddy premises. The resources within the Institute were also
unsatisfactory. In terms of film cameras the situation was described as
one of ‘starvation’. By the end of 1934, the Institute had four cameras,
which were dated foreign models, all in a ‘shabby’ condition and to be
shared by 260 students. Due to lack of finances and slow development of
sound equipment manufacture in the broader industry, the Institute’s
studio was not equipped for sound and only received its first ‘Kinap’
sound recording device in 1935, following a very slight increase in available
funds after the 1934 reorganisation. But the establishment also required
a proper transformer to regulate its electricity supply, new wiring, better
lighting and urgent general repairs throughout the building.14 In the mid-
1930s, it did develop its own book and film libraries, although they were
both situated in small rooms and there was no money forthcoming for
expansion and preservation. The problem of resource shortages was never
properly addressed and by 1940 the leading academics complained that
the Institute was still not equipped with the necessary technical equipment
and materials.15
The cinema administration provided the Institute with nothing more
than a subsistence level of income. Consequently, it struggled with debt
for most of the 1930s. Its budget was miniscule, amounting to just over
1.5 million roubles in 1934.16 For comparison, at the time one expensive
film could cost a similar amount to produce. So, while the cinema
administration itself was short of funds, it certainly did not always
distribute existing resources wisely. Moreover, even if the reorganisation
of the Institute into an academy in 1934 was recognition of previous
mistakes, it was also a money-saving measure. If it had far fewer students,
it would have more funds for its own budget and be less reliant on the
cinema administration. Although the financial situation improved slightly
for the Institute after 1934, under-investment was clearly an ongoing
problem.

The Consequences of Neglect and Under-investment

The cumulative effect of these difficulties in film education and the cinema
industry as a whole meant that graduates struggled to find work in the industry.
This problem was particularly acute in the field of acting. It is helpful to look
at the figures. For instance, in 1932 out of the 170 actors who had graduated
from the Institute only thirty could find some sort of work in the cinema
industry, the rest had to find other jobs in different branches of the economy.
146 SOVIET CINEMA

Similarly, in the same year twenty-four directors had graduated, but of these
only nine found work in the studios, mostly as assistants and as documentary
film-makers; and of eight scriptwriter graduates only one had managed to
secure a contract.17 A similar figure for cameramen in that year was not
provided, it was claimed that the majority had found work. However, it was
well known that high unemployment was still a serious problem among
cameramen.18 To some extent, this was directly related to the weak preparation
of many graduates, but the trend continued throughout the decade, despite
the later improvements in academic standards.
The film-makers who had established themselves in the 1920s
predominantly occupied the main posts in the studios, while those graduates
of the 1930s who were employed were either sent to the dead-end studios
in the republics where career opportunities were extremely limited or
found themselves permanently in the role of assistants. If we look at
the directors who worked at Mosfilm in 1941 we can see just how difficult
it was for the graduates of the 1930s to break through. In that year
there were twenty-five directors working at the studio. Of this total
sixteen had never received any specific type of education in the area of
cinema. This figure included many well-known directors, such as
Eisenstein, Mikhail Romm, Ivan Pyrev, Grigori Alexandrov, Yuli
Raizman and Vsevolod Pudovkin, many of whom had a theatrical or
other type of professional background unrelated to film. A further four
individuals had graduated from GTK and a cinema acting school during
the mid-1920s. They were Ivan Pravov, Efim Dzigan, Boris Barnet and
Tatiana Lukashevich. Only five of the directors in work at Mosfilm in
1941 had graduated from the Institute during the 1930s, including
Konstantin Yudin, Fyodor Filippov, Valentin Kadochnikov, Alexander
Stolper and Boris Ivanov. With the exception of Yudin, the other
directors were paired up to work together to direct their first films. The
studio formally had five other directors on its books, including graduates
of the Institute. However, there is no evidence to suggest that any of
these directors progressed from being assistants and their careers appear
to have come to naught.19
If we look at the fate of the majority of Institute director graduates
of 1936 and beyond we find that few of them gained major recognition.
Many of them did get work as director’s assistants, but never got the
opportunity to make their own films. As we have seen, Filippov and
Kadochnikov were among the fortunate graduates, as was the Georgian
student Konstantin Pipinashvilli who also became a director within three
 FILM EDUCATION AND TRAINING 147

years. Isidor Annensky went on to specialise in literary adaptations, such

as his film The Bear (Medved, 1938), based on Anton Chekov’s play. Fellow
student Ian Frid followed a similar path with many of his films, including
Twelfth Night (Dvenatsadtaia noch, 1955), which was based on William
Shakespeare’s play. Because of the limited possibilities in film, Frid also
worked in theatre and lectured in this area too, providing him with a
constant income. One or two others eventually became fully fledged
directors too, yet this process took over twenty years to materialise in the
case of a certain Viktor Ivanov.20 As before, the majority of graduates
found that their years of hard work at the academy would not lead to the
promising careers they had expected.
It is important to note that this difficult situation also applied to all
the film-maker graduates including scriptwriters and cameramen.
Scriptwriters found it extremely difficult to gain a foothold in the studios
which were dominated by long-established writers from a literary or
theatrical background. Although more cameramen were able to find
work in the studios, the broader reality of career fulfilment was as limited
as the other cinema professions with large numbers of cameramen
receiving a very basic monthly income, but not actually working. At
Mosfilm in 1940 twenty cameramen, largely consisting of younger
graduates, were considered to be ‘unnecessary’ during a series of
proposed cuts.21
In documentary and scientific and educational film-making a similar
situation prevailed. Many Institute graduates had found formal
employment, but the majority were not being given independent work or
the chance for genuine career advancement. In the young art of animation
significant career opportunities only really emerged in the 1950s alongside
the growth of new film-makers in other areas of cinema. Moreover, this
trend was not confined to Moscow or the Russian Republic. Although
the Institute was by far the most important establishment for the provision
of artistic cinema education in the 1930s, there was an alternative, albeit
relatively small, for Ukrainian directors and cameramen, but not
scriptwriters. Yet if the realities of employment were harsh for the Moscow
graduates, they were much worse for their Ukrainian counterparts. In
1936 the Kiev studio director, Solomon Orelovich, expressed concern
that over a period of 5–6 years only one young director, Leonid Lukov,
had been given the chance to make his own feature films.22
The Cinema Committee failed to ensure that any of the studios had an
adequate system in place that would secure realistic career chances for
148 SOVIET CINEMA

young men and women arriving after graduation. Moreover, the committee
was incapable of doing anything to prevent the contraction of the industry
towards the end of the 1930s with the closure of both the Mezhrabpomfilm
and Vostokfilm studios in the middle of the decade. The new children’s
studio Soiuzdetfilm could not absorb the personnel from these studios and
many had to be given work at Mosfilm thus decreasing available places
further.23 Furthermore, at the end of the 1930s the introduction of financial
discipline led to a series of personnel cuts and demotions in the main studios.
These cuts and demotions simply heightened the frustrations of aspiring
film-makers who were facing growing obstacles.24
It is clear that, by the end of the 1930s, Soviet cinema studios were
far from being places of career mobilisation and opportunity. On the
contrary, they had become largely closed off by older directors,
cameramen and scriptwriters who had established themselves, and now
blocked the path for the younger generation. In this way the case of cinema
provides an important contrast to the sphere of politics. According to
Fitzpatrick’s well-known argument, the proletarians and peasants who
rose up through the political education system in the late 1920s and early
1930s were able to fill the shoes of the old specialists purged during the
Great Terror.25 In the artistic sphere of cinema we find a very different
situation. The majority of proletarians who entered the Institute in that
period would never work in cinema and, in the same way as those who
graduated in the mid-to-late 1930s, were blocked by an older generation
who, fortunately, largely survived the purges. They lived relatively well
compared to the rest of the population and had privileged access to limited
resources. Consequently, they were, predictably, reluctant to spread those
resources too widely. Although, economic factors played the central role
in hindering the rise of young film-makers, studio bosses and creative
personnel also tended to be reluctant to trust the graduates.
Indeed, cinema stands out as an area bereft of opportunity compared
not only to the upwardly mobile managers and administrators, but also
to the broader ‘new class’ of educated professionals. For this new class,
opportunity and mobilisation were a fundamental characteristic of the
1930s. However, the cinema industry simply did not have the capacity to
give jobs to film graduates. Although cinema was a potentially massive
weapon of mobilisation and persuasion, the Bolsheviks did not adequately
seize this weapon as they had planned to, choosing instead to invest
disproportionately in heavy industry and defence. This explains why the
Institute, along with the rest of the cinema industry, was expected to
 FILM EDUCATION AND TRAINING 149

survive on an extremely tight budget. As a direct consequence, studios

could only afford to employ relatively small numbers of film-makers.
One of the great ironies of Soviet film education was that the institution
that was intended to produce the directors, writers, cameramen and actors
for Soviet cinema was producing a large number of graduates who would
never work in film.

Personnel and Teaching

The status of the Institute as by far the most important establishment for
the education of creative personnel from the Russian and many of the
other Soviet republics, was reflected in the wealth of teaching talent that
it was able to attract in the 1930s. It is important to reiterate the fact that
many of the Institute’s key pedagogues in the 1930s had fallen out of
favour with the cinema administration by the start of the decade, including
Eisenstein, Lev Kuleshov, Abram Room in the directors’ faculty. The
cinematography faculty included the aforementioned Vladimir Nilsen as
well as Eduard Tisse, Eisenstein’s artistic colleague. Mikhail Shneider,
purged from cinema journalism as a Formalist, was able to re-establish
himself at the Institute’s new film studies faculty in the early 1930s. Thus,
paradoxically, due to the absence of an alternative, those personnel who
were not trusted to make and discuss the films for the new ‘cinema for the
millions’ era were entrusted with the task of teaching the new generation
who were intended to be the driving force behind the new industry.
In discussing the nature and content of education at the Institute
during the 1930s it is impossible not to mention the central role of
Eisenstein. He had taught a short course on film-making at GTK in 1928,
but it was after his return from America in 1932 that he was invited to
lead and devise a comprehensive academic programme for the directors’
faculty at the Institute. In the 1930s he was, to some extent, responsible
for the shift from the less formal, spontaneous nature of film education,
with its limited curriculum, experimental workshops, sometimes featuring
tightrope walking, juggling, horse riding and an absence of timetables
and examinations, to a more organised, academically rigorous system
based on longer courses akin to those in traditional universities with both
undergraduate and postgraduate provision.26 One of Eisenstein’s most
important measures was to broaden the curriculum far beyond the
practical aspects of directorial work to embrace the entire spectrum of
the arts, including literature, theatre, painting and music and specialist
subjects such as Meyerhold’s biomechanics.27
150 SOVIET CINEMA

The Institute was not immune from Marxist orthodoxy. For example,
all students entering the Institute had to have a good knowledge of
dialectical materialism, which, moreover, they were expected to study for
a certain amount of hours during a given course. This influenced the
content of certain courses especially the study of film history. In addition,
other political pressures, such as the purges mentioned above, did have
an impact on the Institute. Despite this, the ethos of the Institute was one
of broad learning and creativity. Eisenstein adopted a teaching style that
enabled students to simultaneously learn and express their creative ideas.
He would begin his classes with a background lecture which provided a
context for the artistic tasks that would then be put before his students.
This task often involved making the artistic connection between cinema
and the various arts that he had now introduced into the curriculum. For
instance, second year students were given the task of establishing the
mise-en-scène for Dessaline’s arrest in Anatoli Vinogradov’s novel The
Black Consul (Chernyi konsul, 1932). After Eisenstein had provided the
students with the historical background lecture to the work, they then
had to conceive space, physical movements, character behaviour,
architectural ensembles, sets, costumes and so on for a given scene.
Eisenstein would pose specific questions to the students and they would
offer their solutions. Sometimes, the director would indicate that their
responses were ineffective. In such cases Eisenstein would explain to them
the answer he had in mind and why it would be most beneficial.28 This
was essentially a process of creative trial and error for the students.
During this process, Eisenstein encouraged his students to identify a
central idea contained in the relevant part of each play, painting or
piece of music which they examined. Then, in order to express the
central idea, students learned both from Eisenstein’s supplementary
lectures and the interactive spontaneous creativity of the seminars how
to depict this idea by utilising all the techniques of mise-en-scène, shot
construction and montage.
The students were then expected to apply what they had learned in
theory to practical classes. Although practical work did not lead to the
jobs it was supposed to, it still formed a key part of the Institute’s program,
amounting to as much as one third of the entire course. In the mid-1930s
students were given the opportunity to carry out practical work on the set
of Eisenstein’s Bezhin Meadow. Students were given very specific tasks,
which could involve creating a director’s elaboration of the mise-en-scène,
the dialogues and the montage of a given part of the film. Subsequently,
 FILM EDUCATION AND TRAINING 151

the results would be compared to those produced by Eisenstein himself,

then the students would discuss and analyse the strengths and weaknesses
of the work with the director. Other students were given the opportunity
to work with various senior film-makers, including the director Alexander
Dovzhenko and the cameramen Eduard Tisse and Alexander Galperin.29
It is worth noting though that not all students from the academy were
selected to gain practical experience. For example, in 1935 only twenty-
two students of the fifty-nine studying in the directors’ faculty were picked
to work in the studios.30
Ultimately, Eisenstein wanted his students to learn not only how to
create films, but films that would have the necessary impact on their
spectators. He was especially concerned with the potential of film as a
means of mass education. As a convinced Marxist, he emphasised the
specific role and impact of communist ideology in cinema.31 Eisenstein’s
ideological motivation in teaching and film-making was reflected in the
establishment of psychology in the directors’ faculty at the Institute. As
with most teaching at the Institute, the study of psychology was extremely
broad examining the theoretical history of the discipline and including
the theories of controversial Western thinkers, such as Freud and Adler.
But despite the discipline’s potential clash with Marxism, Eisenstein gave
his full support to the integration of the study of cinema psychology more
effectively.32
Indeed, Eisenstein’s role in the Institute went further. He helped the
development of the cinematography faculty by recommending the
talented Vladimir Nilsen as a new lecturer at the Institute in 1933. Nilsen
was an assistant cameraman on Eisenstein’s October and The Old and the
New before his arrest in the autumn of 1929 on the grounds of allegedly
working as a spy for Germany.33 Nilsen soon became the leading authority
in the cinematography faculty and gave it the shape and rigour it had
struggled to attain in previous years. The appointment of Nilsen was
particularly significant, as he helped develop the idea, supported in recent
years by several experts, that the cameraman was not merely a ‘technical
executor’ of the director’s wishes, but a co-director.34 While the calls for
cameraman recognition were not always realised in practice, Nilsen
undoubtedly helped to raise the profile of the profession.
Under Nilsen, students were given a strong foundation in how to realise
their creative promise as cameramen. On one hand, they were shown the
entire range of practical and technical methods that would enable them
to develop the skills of shot composition. These included framing an image,
152 SOVIET CINEMA

camera angle, perspective, optical design, lighting, tone and so on. On

the other hand, Nilsen in the erudite spirit being fostered by Eisenstein,
emphasised the need for a broader cultural knowledge, especially in other
aspects of pictorial art, including painting and photography. Although
Nilsen himself worked on films, such as The Circus (Tsirk, 1936) and Volga-
Volga (1938), which supported the ideals of the Soviet regime through
popular storylines, he wanted his students to be open minded and consider
a range of cinematic influences. He wanted his students to engage in the
work of artists and photographers, as a means to help them to think
about objects in a philosophical manner, to express a particular idea.35
The avant-garde had a strong influence on Nilsen’s teaching at the
Institute. In 1934 Eisenstein wrote about the changes to the cinematography
faculty pointing out that, unlike previous years, there was now ‘friendship
and cooperation’ between the specialist areas. In particular, he indicated
that the directors’ faculty and the cinematography faculty were working
together to create a ‘unified theoretical understanding of the subjects
taught and a unified method of research and instruction’.36 Eisenstein’s
influence was especially evident in the practical tasks Nilsen gave to his
students. They were expected to examine great works of art and break
down a given picture into twenty constituent frames which were then
joined together through montage to develop meaning. Such an approach
was also employed by Eisenstein in teaching his basic theories of montage
to his students. Next Nilsen would ask his students to create sketches based
on excerpts from literary works, such as Emile Zola’s books, regularly
used on Eisenstein’s course. After outlining the plot and constructing the
mise-en-scène, students would again place the sketches in the order that
they would be edited together. Again, such an approach was central to
Eisenstein’s directors’ course. Only after repeatedly carrying out these
tasks would the cameraman be able to do practical work in the studios
using a real camera.37 Indeed, this part of Nilsen’s course was not just
similar to Eisenstein’s approach it clearly operated in parallel with the
latter’s methods. 38 In his teaching Nilsen was less concerned with
explaining what a ‘cinema for the millions’ cameraman ought to do to
reach the spectator with the political message and more preoccupied by
the imaginative possibilities of cinematography.
For individuals, such as Eisenstein, Nilsen and many other individuals
at the Institute, film-making opportunities were few and far between.
Nilsen may have helped create politically orthodox entertainment films,
but given the production realities of the 1930s, the choices were limited.
 FILM EDUCATION AND TRAINING 153

Teaching work thus provided these individuals not only with an additional
outlet for creative expression, but also with a forum in which they could
share and test their ideas. As indicated, the teaching was open to the
broadest spectrum of creative experience and theories from both the
USSR and the West at a time when many branches of education were
subject to the imposition of disciplinary orthodoxies and, in some cases,
rigid dogma.

Conclusion
I have argued that a combination of mistaken political policies, poor
administration and an unwillingness to provide the Institute with even
adequate funding, despite its obvious strategic importance, combined to
minimise the potential contribution of film education and thus retard
the growth of the film industry in a broad context of advancement for
educated professionals. As a result of these factors the Institute became
an isolated academic community without a clear purpose, as even after
reorganisation, a small minority of graduates would ever establish
meaningful careers in the industry. This crisis of function extended to its
teaching, which, on one hand, was creative and challenging and open to
a broad range of ideas. The Institute also provided artistic and political
outsiders with a means of creative expression and established the
foundations of film education for the future. On the other hand, the
academics failed to engage in the needs of a popular cinema, maintaining
little relevance to the realities of film production in the 1930s and so
many of their ideas had a limited practical application.
154 SOVIET CINEMA

CHAPTER 8

FILM-MAKERS AND FILM-MAKING

E
arlier we observed that, at the Party Conference in 1928, leading
Party figures had decided that the future of Soviet film-making lay
in the formula of a ‘cinema for the millions’ whereby the political
message would be conveyed in an entertaining form accessible to the
masses. It appeared that they had learned the lesson from the 1920s that
ordinary citizens were not interested in experimental or ‘intellectual’
cinema. On the contrary, it had been shown time and time again that the
people wanted action, adventure, love, romance and light comedy. To
some extent, certain film-makers were prepared to make such films in
the 1930s and, in certain cases, the fusion of politics and entertainment
was successful. In this chapter, in addition to these films, I shall also
examine some of those films produced in the 1930s that avoided the
rigid formulas of the time and offered an alternative artistic vision.
However, overall I will contend that the defensive temptation to emphasise
the political elements of film was to have an increasingly overwhelming
effect on production. A significant number of movies made in this era
sought not only to politically educate the mass audience, but to transfer a
large amount of political responsibility for the regime’s shortcomings on
to the ordinary person. Excessive politicisation thus undermined the
potential for the development of a truly popular cinema that would engage
the ordinary Soviet citizen.

The Soviet Musical: The Circus

Although director Grigori Alexandrov’s first real attempt to fulfil the
‘cinema for the millions’ agenda arrived in 1934 with his film The Happy
Guys, it was his 1936 film The Circus that was to achieve this goal particularly
well. The movie told of Marion Dixon, an American circus performer
 FILM -MAKERS AND FILM -MAKING 155

who is banished from a small Kansas town after it is discovered that she
has a black baby. She is brought to Moscow by Franz von Kneishchitz, a
villainous entreprenneur who yearns for Marion’s affections, but also
exploits her. However, Marion falls for the honest, handsome Russian
acrobat Ivan Martynov. When Kneishchitz learns of Marion’s plan to
stay in the USSR he tries to get revenge by showing the circus her black
child. But, the multi-ethnic audience welcome the child in a show of
internationalism and Dixon’s awareness that she is no longer in the
backward world of racists and capitalists, but in the free, idealistic Soviet
state, is now complete.

Von Kneishchitz terrorises Marion Dixon in a scene from Circus (1936).

As Beth Holmgren has argued, the film-makers made a conscious

effort to import many aspects of Western entertainment in terms of
melodramatic storyline, the singing and dancing characteristic of
Hollywood musicals, as well as the grandiose mise-en-scène. However,
Holmgren contends that the film ‘corrects the Western show business it
imports’ by offering a Marxist critique of the ‘exploitation and social
injustice of Western entertainment’. For Holmgren this Soviet critique
thus justified the ‘entertainment focus’ of the film.1 This strategy is one
of the keys to the distinctiveness and success of the movie. Marion Dixon
inhabits a luxurious, glamorous world which, as Rimgaila Salys has
156 SOVIET CINEMA

observed, is essentially coded in the Art Deco style with its ‘glitter, beauty,
affluence and consumerism’.2 This luxury is evident in much of Dixon’s
elegant clothing, as well as her spacious, hotel room which includes a
grand piano. These opulent surroundings are deliberately conveyed in a
fairy-tale representation which is particularly noticeable during the evening
shots when we see Red Square with its magical illuminations that give
the viewer the sense that Dixon inhabits a world of fantasy. The film-
makers perpetuate this sense through carefully selected shots of some of
Moscow’s most grand locations, including a rooftop view of the Bolshoi
Theatre, the Moskva Hotel and the newly built underground system.
Overall, the look of the film is designed to play its beguiling role of
persuading the viewer to imagine Soviet life as it could be, both abundant
and moral at the same time.
The film is contextualised within the Soviet imperative of ‘catching
up with and surpassing the West’. For Dixon the key motivation behind
her rejection of America and her acceptance of a new Soviet identity is
the nature of social relationships. Yet Alexandrov’s film seeks to claim
that the USSR is not only morally superior, but also technically superior.
This is most evident in the ‘flight to the moon’ sequences. After seeing
the American version of ‘From the Cannon to the Moon’, performed by
Dixon, the director of the circus decides he wants to create a Russian
version of this stunt entitled ‘Flight to the Stratosphere’. The outcome is
significantly more impressive than the American effort. Dixon is
accompanied by Martynov both dressed in futuristic costumes with silk
gowns. Dixon is fired from the cannon, triggering a catapult mechanism
that sends Martynov skywards too. As Dixon swings from a bar that will
eventually become a parachute, Martynov flys around the arena with the
help of invisible cables. This extraordinary scene suggests that the Soviets
can better any of America’s technical achievements and foresees the later
escalation of the Cold War space conquest rivalry.
Although The Circus has all the necessary ingredients to be a highly
entertaining film, it is the music that gives the movie its uplifting feel and
makes it a popular classic. Indeed, the director later commented that the
music was the most important part of the film and everything else was
built on its foundations.3 The music and lyrics for the movie were written
by Isaac Dunaevsky and Vasili Lebedev-Kumach respectively. The film
is rich in terms of musical genre and the range of melodies and instruments
adopted. For example, Song on the Cannon (Pesnia na pushke), one of the
opening compositions in the film, has a distinct jazz feel with its ragtime
 FILM -MAKERS AND FILM -MAKING 157

piano sound and swing rhythm punctuated by a strummed ukulele. Also

in the jazz tradition, Marion Dixon tap dances in accompaniment to the
song on top of the cannon that will soon send her to the ‘moon’. This
trip, which involves the cannon firing Dixon through a paper moon near
the top of the circus tent, is accompanied by a violin-led composition
entitled Lunar Waltz (Lunnyi Vals). This classical piece has a romanticism
that reflects Dixon’s dream of a happy life beyond the brutality and racial
hatred that she has known in small-town America. The composition is
used when she first sees Ivan Martynov’s photograph and when she meets
him. It also features throughout the film as a leitmotif. Even during apparently
minor moments, the music plays a special evocative role. Alexandrov was
strongly preoccupied with the Cinderella theme which appeared in one form
or another in many of his most successful movies. In The Circus Moscow and
the USSR are portrayed as a magical, fairy-tale place to which Dixon has
escaped from the misery and oppression of the USA. However, as the threat
of Von Kneischitz taking her back to California grows, we are shown a clock
ticking towards midnight. This image is accompanied by gentle, melancholic,
glockenspiel notes which create a sombre mood, suggesting that Dixon’s
happiness is about to come to an end.
The lullaby makes a central contribution to the musical and dramatic
vitality of The Circus. Initially, Dixon affirms her love for her child, following
a racially motivated tirade from Von Kneischitz, by singing him to sleep
with a lullaby. This expression of maternal love is extended at the end of
the film to the idea of familial love. When Von Kneischitz attempts to
expose Dixon’s secret that she has a black baby, he hopes that the circus
audience will sympathise with his odious views. Instead, the audience
composed of different nationalities and races embraces the child, passing
him around as if he were part of a big family. They sing him the lullaby,
composed by Dunaevsky, which opens with the following words:

Sleep reaches the threshold,

Soundly, soundly you drift off,
A hundred paths,
A hundred roads,
Are open for you!

These words convey a sense of safety and hope, not only for the child’s
present and future, but for the audience too. Along with the music, the
lyrics have a soothing effect on the viewer, creating a strong sense that
158 SOVIET CINEMA

Soviet society is deeply compassionate and contains no prejudice or

malice.
The most important song in the film is the Song of the Motherland (Shiroka
strana moia rodnaia) which effectively became the unofficial Soviet national
anthem and can be heard on five different occasions during the movie.
The two most important are the scene where it becomes clear that Marion
Dixon and Ivan Martynov are in love and they both play and sing the
song on a piano in Dixon’s hotel room. It is also employed at the end of
the film when it becomes a full march complete with a military choir. At
this point Dixon, Martynov and their comrades stride across Red Square
as Dixon realises that she now has a new homeland. The piece is adopted
at strategic moments in the plot to indicate Marion Dixon’s realisation of
her love for Martynov and for the USSR. Thus when she sings the song it
is a statement of her rejection of America and her celebration of her
new, Soviet nationhood. The song became hugely popular due to its catchy
melody and bold lyrics intended to reflect the new confidence of the
young Soviet state. The message of the song parallels the idea of the film
which was to suggest that the USSR was a truly free country bound by
the principle of the brotherhood of man. The Song of the Motherland
completes the musical ensemble of the film which succeeds in moving,
uplifting and soothing its audience.
The Circus was an instant success at the box office, smashing all
previous ticket sale records and establishing the musical as a firm
favourite among the Soviet public. In addition, when the film was
released, the songs became hugely popular also setting new records.4
The brothers Tur, writing in Isvestiia, praised the director’s skilful
handling of the central theme of overcoming racist prejudice in The
Circus. They also considered the film to be intelligent in contradistinction
to ‘mindless foreign comedies’.5 The reasons for the film’s success were
straightforward. It made the Soviet system attractive by identifying it
with a fairy-tale world of dream realisation, joy, laughter and music
rather than attempting to engage the viewer in political debate.
Alexandrov knew what the everyday realities of Soviet life were and
how to create a cinematic escapism that would be politically effective.
The Circus was a success because the director produced a high-quality
film that ordinary people would genuinely enjoy. Although the political
element is always central to the story, Alexandrov did not let it become
too prevalent. The film is driven along by the imperatives of popular
entertainment. In this sense The Circus was by no means typical of the
 FILM -MAKERS AND FILM -MAKING 159

Soviet films produced in this era. As we shall see, the ‘cinema for the
millions’ agenda was often undermined by an excessive emphasis on
politics over entertainment that demanded political engagement from
the viewer rather than transporting them into the world of fantasy.

Other ‘Cinema for the Millions’ Films

On viewing films from the 1930s it becomes apparent that films of the
Alexandrov quality were certainly not the norm. Indeed, if we consider
the ‘cinema for the millions’ to be high-quality movies which carefully
balance politics and entertainment, then there are only some films that
adequately fulfil this function. Ivan Pyrev developed rural equivalents of
Alexandrov’s urban musicals. He made The Rich Bride (Bogataia nevesta,
1938), The Tractor Drivers and The Swineherdess and the Shepherd. These three
kolkhoz musical comedies all combined accessible plots with high-quality
popular music. The plots were straightforward, all dealing with
countryside romance against a background of collective farm development
and conflict. For instance, The Rich Bride followed the lives of a tractor
driver Zgara and a farm worker Marinka who are in love and happily
gathering the harvest in a Ukrainian kolkhoz. A local accounts clerk
decides that he also loves Marinka and attempts to ruin the young couple’s
union and the harvest. But after the young heroes save the harvest from a
storm, the accounts clerk confesses to Marinka that he has deceived her
and the young couple are reunited at the end. As with Alexandrov’s films,
Pyrev’s rural musical comedies were, on the whole, deservedly well-
received by both critics and viewers.
The Vasilev brothers’ Chapaev is perhaps the most famous example of
a successful popular film that conveyed the idea of a heroic Bolshevik
victory during the civil war. The film tells of how a commissar, by the
name of Furmanov, shows the spontaneous and undisciplined Red Army
commander Chapaev how to be a tough, disciplined communist. The
commissar is successful in his efforts and, having come to political
consciousness, Chapaev plays a major role in the Red victory, before his
heroic death at the end of the film. Vladimir Shneiderov’s excellent film
Dzhulbars (1935), which was made at the Mezhrabpomfilm studio and
was reminiscent of that organisation’s 1920s blockbusters, told of the
struggle between Soviet border guards and a criminal group. But the real
hero on this occasion is the dog Dzhulbars who performs a series of
remarkable feats to save his master and foil the bandits. The film certainly
contained the message that Soviet border guards were winning the battle
160 SOVIET CINEMA

to control the wild southern frontiers of the USSR, but this was conveyed
by means of action and adventure that, according to its director, made
the film a popular classic among Soviet citizens.6
Other movies took adventure into the skies or dealt with maritime
themes. Several films were made on the fashionable subjects of aeroplanes
and pilots. These included Yuli Raizman’s Flyers (Letchiki, 1935) which told
of the conflict between a daring stuntman student pilot and the disciplined
flight instructor whose views predictably prevail. A similar plot characterised
the less well-known Ukrainian film The Fifth Ocean (Piatyi okean, 1940) where
a young aspiring pilot learns that disciplined professionalism is what Soviet
aviation is all about. Soviet heroism was celebrated in Efim Dzigan’s We are
from Kronstadt (My iz Kronshtadta, 1936) which recalled the victory of the
Baltic fleet over Iudenich’s whites during the civil war.
There were also a few successful mass-orientated comedies made during
the 1930s that were part of the ‘cinema for the millions’ agenda. Mikhail
Verner’s A Girl in a Hurry (Devushka speshit na svidanie, 1936) tells of how an
engineer and a shoemaker go to a holiday resort, leaving their passports at
home. Their wives go to the same post office to send them on to the men,
but the female clerk mixes up the envelopes. The men end up with each
other’s passport leading to a series of slapstick comic moments. Konstantin
Yudin’s A Girl with Character (Devushka s kharakterom, 1939) offered similar
light-hearted comic relief. It told of a strong-willed girl who is unsatisfied
with life on an animal sovkhoz in the East of the Soviet Union and makes
her way to Moscow where she finds love, excitement and adventure. While
we can identify a few films of this type, such popular comedies were not
common and given less priority in thematic plans, perhaps due to the
difficulty of using them to convey ‘serious’ political messages.

The Class Enemy Drama: The Party Card

The late 1930s were increasingly dominated by films that prioritised the
political element and required the viewer to watch and learn rather than
relax and escape. This was evident in many different areas, but one of the
most common examples was the ubiquitous class enemy drama. Ivan Pyrev’s
The Party Card (Partiinyi bilet, 1936) has become one of the period’s most
infamous films. Contemporary observers have described it either as ‘perhaps
the most morally reprehensible Soviet film of the 1930s’ or, in terms of its
plot, as ‘absurd’.7 It tells of how Pavel Kuganov, a young peasant from Siberia,
comes to Moscow to find happiness. He gets a job at a factory, thanks to his
new found friend Yasha, but soon steals the latter’s object of affection, Anna,
 FILM -MAKERS AND FILM -MAKING 161

through charm and proving himself to be a loyal communist. Later in the

film the apparently happy life of Kuganov and Anna is cut short when her
Party card goes missing. At first she takes the blame and Kuganov demands
that she is dismissed from the Party. It soon transpires that Kuganov (whose
real name is Ziubin) is an ‘enemy of the people’ who not only murdered a
Komsomol secretary in Siberia, but had himself stolen his wife’s Party card
on the unlikely orders of a foreign spy. Anna exposes Kuganov at the end of
the film, holding him at gunpoint until he is arrested.

Still of the class enemy Kuganov, posing as a committed communist in The Party
Card (1936).

The movie deals with the theme of necessary vigilance, prevalent in

many of the class enemy dramas of the 1930s, as a means of proving
loyalty to the Soviet system. One of its key messages was that even the
person closest to you could be a manipulative class enemy. In this way it
continues the theme of political paranoia that forces are conspiring to
seize power and end the communist dream. In The Party Card, when
Kuganov has succeeded in winning Anna’s affections, he says: ‘Moscow
you are all mine’, suggesting that his dastardly mission is not merely about
economic gain, but a wider political plot. As indicated by Fyodor, the
162 SOVIET CINEMA

Party representative in the film, played by Anatoli Goriunov, the Party

card is a “symbol of honour, pride and the struggle of every Bolshevik”.
Indeed, the most important aspect of the film is the fact that, although
none of the characters express it openly, the meaning of the Party card is
extended to the private sphere and personal life. The stolen card represents
Anna’s loss of self-discipline. The Party Card and other Soviet films of the
time constantly return to the idea that spontaneity must give way to a
strict Soviet asceticism where happiness can only be found in self-control,
discipline, hard work and responsible domestic relationships.
Anna has all of this in her life, before she meets Pavel Kuganov. She is
from a good, honest Soviet family. She works hard at the factory and is
respected as a strong, independent woman who does not rely on men to
provide for her. Yasha, who also works at the factory, is a reliable, hard-
working man who fulfils all of the criteria of the upstanding, Soviet male.
He falls in love with Anna, but her affection for him is soon overridden by
her spontaneous obsession with the dark, brooding, cynical figure of
Kuganov, who has entered their lives. The danger of her involvement
with Kuganov is expressed by the metaphor of the storm. Kuganov
serenades Anna when suddenly rain, thunder and lightening engulf them
and she lets him enter her house and her life. In most of the scenes
featuring Kuganov, Pyrev shrouds him in darkness, suggesting an
impending threat that undermines his charming demeanour.
On the other hand, Yasha is the very opposite of Kuganov with his
recitals of poetry and his easy-going friendly manner. Following his failure
to attract Anna, Yasha soon leaves Moscow to work in Siberia. When he
writes to Anna, we are shown the calm, sun-drenched landscapes of
Siberia in all their floral beauty clearly intended to reflect the ‘safe’,
familiar nature of Yasha’s character. In making this contrast between the
two men, Pyrev sought to convey the most important central message of
this film: the Soviet citizen should never give in to spontaneous feelings
or be tempted to explore dangerous paths as such choices will inevitably
lead to negative consequences. In this way the film, and the many other
similar movies produced at this time, seek to do more than convey the
transition from the spontaneous to the politically enlightened as the right
path of development for all citizens, but to suggest that it is a moral and
political necessity. The films expresses a communist conservatism that
defends a limited view of permissible human conduct and seeks to preserve
stability at a time of radical change and modernisation.
At the time of its release Pyrev, unsurprisingly, did not make this central
 FILM -MAKERS AND FILM -MAKING 163

theme explicit. He argued that the time of making films for elite, artistic
purposes had passed. Film-makers should now be making accessible
movies that showed that the artist was aware of what was going on around
him. Pyrev believed that the film-maker should select themes that worked
‘in unison with the construction of our country’ and were of great necessity
for millions of cinema-goers. In The Party Card Pyrev wanted to make a
film that called on the audience to show ‘revolutionary vigilance’ and
‘hatred towards the enemy’, he wanted the spectator to leave the cinema
with this strong hatred which would force the individual to be
‘guarded’,‘circumspect’ and, having seen the enemy’s tactics on the screen,
they would be able to ‘discover Kuganovs on their own area of socialist
construction’.8 The critics welcomed Pyrev’s efforts to raise vigilance
among the population. In Kino, the critic Litovsky praised the film for
how effectively it showed the mechanics of class enemy behaviour and its
emphasis on the importance of the Party card. He regarded it as having
‘enormous educational-propaganda significance’.9 Alexander Macheret,
writing in Iskusstvo kino (Art of Cinema), gave a similar positive assessment,
suggesting that the unmasking of Pavel Kuganov gave the film good
dramatic tension. Macheret believed that The Party Card was a good
example of a film that showed Soviet reality as it is.10 The Party Card was
released in the spring of 1936 in a country on the verge of mass arrests
and executions, and thus proved to be tragically prophetic.

The Political/Historical Epic: The Great Citizen

After establishing himself as a reliable Party film-maker in the 1930s,
Fridrikh Ermler made what proved to be one of his most significant films,
The Great Citizen, which was a two-part political drama about the life of
Sergei Kirov, the Party boss in Leningrad who was assassinated in 1934.
According to Mikhail Bleiman and Manuel Bolshintsov, the authors of
the script, the film would be built around two conflicting ideas: ‘The
victorious path of the Bolshevik Party, implementing the Leninist-Stalinist
teaching on the building of socialism in one country, and the path of the
Trotskyite-Bukharin gangsters who have degenerated into an assault
detachment of fascism, becoming spies, saboteurs and murderers’.11
Ermler himself had made his goal even clearer when he pointed out that
the aim of the film was not to show how certain Party members eventually
formed an opposition. On the contrary, he argued that ‘the cognitive
strength [of the film] ought to be in the way that it shows people how
some moved away from the Party and what this leads to’.12
164 SOVIET CINEMA

The completed two-part film begins in 1925 by showing how Pyotr

Shakhov (who represents Kirov) stood firm during the struggle for Party
leadership on the ‘correct’ side of the Stalinists who want to concentrate on
building ‘socialism in one country’, as opposed to the Trotskyite opposition
who are more concerned with the international arena of socialism. The first
part concludes, indicating that the Stalinist agenda has won and that the
opponents will now work secretly to undermine this programme. Part two
has already moved to 1934 and the ‘Congress of the Victors’. The former
opposition is now working in the underground where, in collusion with
foreigners, they sabotage production at a tractor factory, try to ruin the
construction of a canal and, eventually, murder the hero Shakhov.

Still of the hero Shakhov from The Great Citizen (1937-39).

The Great Citizen provides a more unusual illustration of the persuasive

techniques used by many film-makers in the typical, Soviet ‘class enemy’
film during the 1930s. In most ‘class enemy’ films the saboteur tends to
engage in physical destruction of grand Soviet projects, such as canals,
dams, construction sites, which the people have created in very difficult
conditions. For example, Sergei Gerasimov’s Komsomolsk, (1937) tells of
how in 1932 a young army of Komsomol members are given the task of
clearing a huge forested area to build a new town on the Amur river. Just
 FILM -MAKERS AND FILM -MAKING 165

as it appears that work is going to plan, a saboteur by the name of

Chekanov, using a ticket stolen from a murdered member of the
Komsomol, arrives during the construction process. He sets fire to storage
facilities containing explosives needed to provide wood for construction
work, placing the project in real trouble. However, the young heroes find
a way of delivering wood down the Amur river. The saboteur, who has
also killed some young people on his trail, is eventually unmasked by the
NKVD and the town goes on to celebrate its achievements. This type of
plot formula is central to a whole range of films produced in the 1930s
and was intended to suggest to the viewer that all their efforts to build a
new society were constantly under threat.
However, in The Great Citizen the class enemy uses words (although
physical destruction soon follows) as a key weapon.13 In The Great Citizen,
the enemy mocks, undermines and denies the possibility of a fair and
prosperous society under Bolshevik terms. The film appeals to the
emotions of the audience by using the class enemy as the vehicle through
which to say that not only are the Bolsheviks deluded, but the people
themselves are taking part in a futile project. This is particularly evident
in the tactics of Alexei Kartashov one of the key Trotskyite enemies.
During a debate with Shakhov, he talks about the state of a ‘fat-arsed
Russia’ with a starving, poverty-stricken population who are ‘engaged in
trivialities’ in their efforts to construct socialism in one country. In contrast
to the Trotskyites who are presented as only interested in the abstract
ideal of world revolution, Shakhov is a practical man of action who is
easily identifiable with the working masses. He constantly refers to the
Bolsheviks and the people as one and the same, arguing along simplistic
lines with emotional appeal. In response to Kartashov’s views, he
describes the hardships that ordinary people went through during and
after the civil war, either suffering from starvation and disease or dying.
He says: ‘they [the people] believe that they are building socialism and
you say that it is impossible to build’. Thus The Great Citizen attempts to
use its class enemy characters to provoke resentment towards the idea
that the Russian working class cannot achieve socialism without being
part of a wider global process of revolution that will include the West.
The saboteurs suggest that ideas from the West are superior when
Kartashov, in a derogatory tone, says of Shakhov’s ideas: ‘this isn’t Marx
it is Shchedrin’. This technique is intended to tap into the aspirational
impulse of the Soviet viewer appealing to the competitive side of ordinary
citizens.
166 SOVIET CINEMA

Although The Great Citizen can also be categorised as a ‘class enemy’

film it is the first real attempt at creating an epic, Soviet, political thriller
that is heavily plot-driven and that attempts to make everyday Soviet
politics entertaining. At a discussion of the script in the summer of 1936,
six months before the final version was accepted, fellow director Sergei
Vasilev warned that the film, which required a knowledge and interest in
Party history, would not be accessible to the mass spectator.14 Indeed, the
film provides a strong example of how the ‘cinema for the millions’
aspiration of a balance between entertainment and politics often leaned
excessively towards the latter in the 1930s. Ermler’s production lasts for
over four hours in total and almost entirely consists of Party conferences,
speeches, meetings, political debates and so on. It offers little entertainment
value for the viewer and is almost completely devoid of dramatic tension.
The first part of the film is, on the whole, shot in murky lamp-lit rooms or
large halls where political discussions take place, or the opposition and
Shakhov vie to win over the people. The camera work largely consists of
lengthy shots of these individuals standing in front of, or over the audience.
Moreover, there is very little music in the film which merely highlights its
arid nature. Despite obtaining the services of Dmitri Shostakovich, his
work is barely featured except at the beginning of each part of the movie
and at choice moments, such as Shakhov’s funeral. The absence of music
is consistent with the plodding script.
In Part two, the potential for more tension arises when the political
enemies start talking about destroying construction sites and a canal. There
follows the most dramatic moment as we see ambulances driving through
the rain on a dark night to try to rescue survivors from a deliberate explosion
at a canal construction site where we learn that nineteen people have been
killed. However, the film instantly returns to a pedestrian pace, before
reaching its dramatic highpoint: the murder of Shakhov. As with the
incident at the canal, this is something of a non-event which takes place
behind closed doors and has very little impact. It is important to note
that Stalin gave orders that this part of the film should not be seen as the
‘centre’ or ‘highpoint’ of the script.15 The unfortunate result is that there
is no highpoint at all. The overindulgence in politics means that The Great
Citizen does not provide any form of mass entertainment, such as action,
adventure, love interest or popular song. The film’s slow momentum is
sustained on the basis of rather dry Stalinist slogans and the domination
of Soviet speak.
Unsurprisingly, some of the critics welcomed the film. A certain Rutes,
 FILM -MAKERS AND FILM -MAKING 167

writing for Kino, suggested that the movie was especially valuable for mass
‘education’ given the recent show trials, while, Abramov, a critic for the
newspaper Vecherniaia Moskva (Evening Moscow) also praised the movie,
describing it as a ‘new victory for Soviet cinema’.16 Nonetheless, there
was also significant criticism in Iskusstvo Kino, as well as the mainstream
newspaper Pravda, albeit restrained, of the film’s excessive reliance on
political gatherings and its fundamentally tedious content.17 Nonetheless,
while sources on general audience reaction to films in the 1930s are still
emerging, it is fair to say that some class enemy dramas that made an
effort to entertain, as well as educate, were popular. For example, Vaks,
the critic for the newspaper Vecherniaia Moskva reported that a Moscow
audience viewed Komsomolsk with ‘excitement’ and ‘cheerfulness’ especially
at the arrival of 200 female Komsomol volunteers when the audience
broke into ‘thunderous applause’.18 Nonetheless, the evidence suggests
that even in a context where audience choice had been greatly reduced,
viewers generally did not opt for films with excessive political content. By
way of illustration, Maya Turovskaya has pointed out that, in terms of
receipts per film copy, a little-known Armenian adventure film, reminiscent
of Chapaev, entitled Karo (1937), was more than twice as popular as the
movie Lenin in October, one of the typical politicised films of the late 1930s.
It is almost certain that, when The Great Citizen was released in the late
1930s, the mass spectator would not have regarded the film as a
memorable event. One avid cinema follower, by the name of Adrian
Shaposhnikov, kept a diary in which he gave ratings to films of the era.
Although he found some purely political films, such as Lenin in October
and Lenin in 1918, to be ‘good’ movies, he described The Great Citizen as
‘mediocre’.19

The Political Aims of ‘Class Enemy’ and Purely Political

Films
Soviet cinema was above all a political and didactic medium, but what
did these films ultimately hope to achieve in terms of persuasion or
argument? It has often been argued that Soviet films of the Stalin era
sought to ‘varnish’ reality, to present a life that did not exist, or to ‘avoid
showing real hardships and conflicts’. Others contend that the films aimed
to justify the hardships or political violence.20 Yet, although class enemy
films undoubtedly seek to justify the actions of the Soviet government,
their raison d’être is arguably more profound than a straightforward
covering up or denial of reality. In these movies the shortcomings of
168 SOVIET CINEMA

‘socialist transition’ or ‘socialist construction’ do find their expression in

the form of saboteurs. In other words, if the Soviet dream is not delivering,
it is not due to the irreconcilable gap between Bolshevik aspirations and
Russian realities, rather, it is a consequence of fanatical enemies of the
Revolution who will stop at nothing to destroy the communist ideal.
However, most of the Soviet film-makers who created these movies did
not merely aim to shift the locus of reasoning for the problems of everyday
life and wider economic development. More importantly, many of the
films made in the 1930s also seek to transfer a large amount of the burden
of political responsibility and compensation for the regime’s illegitimate
foundations on to ordinary people. For example, as we have seen, in The
Party Card Anna’s path to the good life is to be achieved through self-
control and discipline, but this is less about fostering the happiness of the
individual and more about the cohesion and development of Soviet social
and economic life. Similarly, the unmasking of the enemy is conveyed as
a social duty necessary to protect the security and prosperity of the
communist state and its citizens. In The Great Citizen Shakhov refers to the
need for self-criticism (samokritika) as the ‘basic moral quality of the Soviet
man’ as a means of ‘overcoming all the bad things in other people and in
oneself ’. Again, the causes of wider political failure are often reduced to
individuals’ capacity to exercise self-control and social vigilance. Thus
real or perceived shortcomings are not only the responsibility of political
rulers, but of the people who have failed in their participatory duties. In this
way the films suggest that by playing a full role in both private and public
life, the people make that system their own. After all, the Bolsheviks’
central argument was that communism was about the liberation of the
toiling masses and that it was their polity.
The ‘class enemy’ and other politicised films of the 1930s sought to
make the Soviet system a success by suggesting that the USSR did not
emerge merely due to the actions of a relatively small group of political
fanatics, but because of the work of a wider mass movement. In The Great
Citizen, Shakhov talks about ‘millions’ of Bolsheviks who are trying to
build a new life and claims that ‘the people will destroy anyone who tries
to stop our work’. Thus, on the screen at least, the film-makers sought to
narrow the gap between the Soviet political elite and the masses in whose
name it claimed to rule. Yet, as we have argued, the most important
method of closing this gap was through the transfer of political
responsibility. This was absolutely central to the political function of Soviet
cinema during the Stalin years.
 FILM -MAKERS AND FILM -MAKING 169

Soviet Satire: Happiness

Director Alexander Medvedkin’s most enduring legacy was his first feature
film made at Mosfilm in 1934. Happiness (Schaste) tells of Khmyr and his
wife Anna who are impoverished peasants living in both pre-Revolutionary
Russia and shown later in the early 1930s during the collectivisation drive.
Khmyr, who is the central character, dreams of a prosperous property-
owning life. This almost comes to fruition when he finds a purse full of
money and he is able to buy property and a horse. This short-lived fortune
is soon ended by thieves, a kulak and various representatives of the state
who gradually expropriate his new-found wealth. In a state of despair
Khmyr decides that he is going to die and proceeds to build a coffin for
himself. Even this desire is thwarted by religious and military figures who
claim that he has no right to kill himself. But his welfare is their last concern:
rather, they want him to fulfil his responsibility to provide food for Russia.
After being taken away by tsarist soldiers, Khmyr is suddenly transported
into the early 1930s and a rural environment now collectively organised.
Khmyr has still not lost his desire to be a landowner free from the constraints
of the kolkhoz, but he is now downtrodden and dejected and fails to make
a useful contribution to the collective farm. Meanwhile, Foka, a menacing
kulak, is trying to cause havoc in the kolkhoz and eventually tries to burn
the farm’s horses to death in their stable. Khmyr prevents this from
happening and suddenly becomes a hero. At the end of the film Khmyr
travels with Anna to town to buy a new suit, before he discards his old
peasant costume, symbolising his final rejection of his old beliefs.
The reception of Happiness by the critics was somewhat mixed. The
main industry newspaper Kino understood that Medvedkin’s main aim
was to criticise Khmyr’s individualist dream of great wealth and to show
that this dream was an illusion. Kino’s critic, Boris Vetrov, argued that the
weakness of the film lay in the second part where he felt that Medvedkin
failed to show Khmyr as having made the transformation from the aspiring
individualist to the honest collective farmer. Despite this perceived
shortcoming, Vetrov recognised the director’s inventive style and concluded
that the film was ‘valuable’ and ‘artistic’.21 A review in the general press
was less critical. Boris Vaks, writing for Vecherniaia Moskva, praised
Medvedkin’s bold use of folklore in the contemporary medium of
cinematography and concluded that Happiness was a film of social and
artistic significance from a ‘promising’ and ‘distinctive’ film-maker.
Curiously, it was the reaction of a local newspaper which was to have
such a negative impact on the film’s destiny. It appears that the film had
170 SOVIET CINEMA

Film poster for the film Happiness (1934).

 FILM -MAKERS AND FILM -MAKING 171

been released and was enjoying modest returns when suddenly the review
appeared, criticising Medvedkin of slandering the Russian peasant,
suggesting that the class war in the countryside had died off, and that the
kulak had peacefully been integrated into the socialist project. The film
was then withdrawn from distribution and was banned.22
Medvedkin later stressed that the point was to show that Khmyr’s dream
and idea of happiness was unrealistic. Yet there is little about this remarkable
film that could make it comparable with much of the formulaic cinema
product of the same time. In the same way as Medvedkin’s previous work,
the film gives a humorous and honest portrayal of country life. It focuses on
individual experience and shows the harsh realities of this life as an endless
struggle for resources and survival. Although the film is a statement against
greed, the viewer is, to some extent, supposed to sympathise with Khmyr.
There is an absence of the cliché of coming to consciousness or any real
sense that Khmyr has fundamentally changed. The film’s uniqueness can
also be found in a visually rich use of Russian folklore stylistic devices and a
dark satirical humour which makes the film stand out from other popular
Soviet comedies of the time. Khmyr’s failure ‘to die’ and lie in his coffin and
the desperate nun’s attempt to commit suicide on a revolving windmill are
among the humorous moments that convey Medvedkin’s comic skills.
As Widdis points out, Medvedkin’s strategy of satirical exposure as a
means of persuading people to improve their approach to work or social life
may have been intended to work in favour of the Soviet regime, but the
director’s biting comedy allied to his eccentric film-making style also threatened
to undermine that regime, especially in the eyes of many Bolsheviks.23 Indeed,
this is where Medvedkin differed from many of his fellow communists. As we
have argued, the defensive outlook of political and administrative figures
that had such a strong impact on Soviet cinema was about denial, about
attempting to claim a legitimacy that simply did not exist. Medvedkin
understood that the Bolsheviks had taken on an enormous task. Yet, while he
too was an idealist who believed in the communist future, he also understood
that the project would not have a chance of fruition without an open, honest
dialogue about the realities of Soviet society. He realised that a problem
could not be solved by pretending that it did not exist.

The Apolitical Revolutionary Film: The Last Night

Although well-established by 1937, Yuli Raizman acknowledged, that it
was through the film The Last Night that he reached ‘professional maturity’.
The director joined up with Yevgeni Gabrilovich, his contemporary from
172 SOVIET CINEMA

school, to develop a script version of Gabrilovich’s story Quiet Brovkin

(Tikhii Brovkin, 1936). The script told of the last night of the tsarist system
and the struggle between the old and new world. This clash is told through
the experiences of the working-class Zakharkin family and the factory-
owning Leontev family. Individuals from both families come into conflict
with one another throughout the film. The heads of the families, Igor
Zakharkin and Leontev, engage in a bitter dispute and Igor is shot dead.
Subsequently, Ilia Zakharkin, the middle brother, and then Kuzma
Zakharkin the young, naive schoolboy are shot by the Whites. But Pyotr,
the oldest brother, survives and leads the seizure of the Briansk railway
station. The revolutionary soldiers then make their way towards the Kremlin
accompanied by the mother of the Zakharkin family.
The Last Night received substantial publicity in the cinema press. The
critics broadly praised the film and, according to Gabrilovich, it enjoyed
‘huge success’, with the cinema-going public.24 In Iskusstvo kino one article
gave the film particular credit for its acting through which the critic believed
that the film-makers had captured the glory of the Revolution. A review in
Vecherniaia Moskva had more acumen and showed a deeper understanding
of the film-makers’ intentions. The critic observed that the film was devoid
of ‘far-fetched’ images and was ‘natural, truthful, humane, diverse like life’.
The review also noted Raizman and Gabrilovich’s attention to the prosaic,
everyday aspect of the Revolution and the possibility that the ordinary
person could become a hero. The critic concluded that this very attention
to the ordinary meant that the film differed from other films being produced
in the USSR at the time.25
Indeed, both Gabrilovich and Raizman later acknowledged the
difficulties that they had experienced after completing The Last Night.
Raizman did not directly refer to the problems with censorship, but suggested
that they had been attacked by those who advocated ‘monumentalism’
and grand ‘epic’ portrayals of the October Revolution. In the 1960s
Gabrilovich pointed out that the film-makers were accused of failing to
capture the ‘epic’ and ‘romantic’ nature of the Revolution and providing
an accurate political emphasis. By monumentalism the film-makers were
referring to films, such as Battleship Potemkin (Bronenosets Potemkin, 1925) with
its emphasis on the masses rather than the individual as the hero. Yet by the
1930s this sort of film was no longer the norm. The real conflict that the
two men were referring to was between the idea of the Revolution as a
glorified myth led by Party heroes, such as Lenin, and the idea of the
Revolution from the point of view of the ordinary person which, during
 FILM -MAKERS AND FILM -MAKING 173

the late 1930s, could be an extremely controversial perspective.

Raizman and Gabrilovich’s focus on the everyday and the ordinary
was a pioneering step that foresaw later developments in Soviet cinema
during the ‘thaw’ years. Of course, in The Last Night the film-makers were
careful to suggest that the Bolsheviks were ‘correct’ and there are elements
of minor glorification. Yet the film offers a believable characterisation of
the ordinary man suddenly involved in a social revolution. Nikolai
Dorokhin, who played the part of Pyotr Zakharkin, a rank-and-file sailor,
did not match the traditional depiction of the muscular, smiling and
confident revolutionary. On the contrary, Raizman deliberately selected
an actor who could show that the average sailor empowered by the
possibilities of the Revolution would be almost overawed by such an
event.26 Pyotr is physically awkward and lacking in confidence, he is
fully committed to the Bolshevik cause, yet it is clear that he does not
really understand the political ideals which he is fighting for. Thus while
the film-makers emphasised the righteousness of the October
Revolution, their main hero did not correspond to Soviet heroic
stereotypes of the time.
The Last Night also points to the tragic and accidental aspects of the
Revolution. This is explored through Kuzma, the youngest brother of
the Zakharkin family. He is a grammar schoolboy who is naive and
perceives the Revolution as a romantic adventure. He tells Lena, who is
from the Leontev family, that he is a revolutionary ‘fighting for a wonderful
new life’ to win her affections. As he wonders aimlessly through the
Moscow streets he accidentally gets caught up in crossfire and finds himself
among White soldiers who expect him to fight with them. When they
discover that he is from a working-class family he runs away only to be
shot. This particular element in the plot was included to show that the
Revolution was not all about heroism and great feats, but also tragedy
and loss of innocent life.
Raizman’s distinctive approach of exploring the role of individuals
in the midst of political and social change or upheaval proved to be an
enduring theme of his career. His next film was an attempt to adapt
Mikhail Sholokhov’s Virgin Soil Upturned (Podniataia tselina, 1939). This
project enjoyed limited success and is rarely mentioned among Raizman’s
classic works. It was overshadowed by Raizman’s subsequent production
which has become one of his most popular movies. Reunited with
Gabrilovich, Raizman made Mashenka, a story of love between the heroine,
a post office clerk and Alexei, a chauffeur. Again the focus was on ordinary
174 SOVIET CINEMA

lives rather than grand historical events. The film, in a similar manner to
The Last Night, did not resemble the general direction of films produced
before and during the war with their emphasis on glorious Soviet victories.
Raizman’s work reveals that it was possible to be relatively creative and
independent during the 1930s when thematic planning and censorship
made life very difficult for film-makers.

Narrowing Variety and Experimentation in the 1930s:

Film-maker Motivation
As we have seen the 1930s saw a dramatic change in the way films were
conceived, vetted at all stages, set into production, distributed and
exhibited. The inevitable result of close political control at all levels meant
a real reduction in content variety and the possibilities for free artistic
expression. Although it is unfair to say the quality of certain movies was
inferior to those produced in the 1920s, cinema was an art form for the
masses and, therefore, while the strong reduction of experiment was to
be lamented, there was a huge demand and a necessity to produce
entertaining Soviet films that ordinary people could enjoy.
We have argued above that Soviet cinema struggled throughout the
1930s due to lack of investment and a consequent absence of sufficient
numbers of specialists in all areas. One of the major consequences of
this situation was that newly trained personnel found it extremely difficult
to establish meaningful long-term careers in the industry. In the 1930s
the cinema studios tended to offer permanent employment mainly to
well-established film-makers who were aware of the specific political
demands of this era. However, it has been contended here that different
film-makers reacted in various ways to this new political climate. Is it
possible to identify why certain film-makers were unambiguously pro-
Soviet and made mass feature films which leaned far more towards politics
than entertainment, while others were less fully committed to political
orthodoxy?
As indicated, not all film-makers offered unconditional commitment
to the demands of Soviet cinema in the 1930s, but most of them did. As
this commitment was central to the direction of the industry in the 1930s
we must ask what were the reasons for such apparent political loyalty? In
the first place, we cannot discount the social background factor. Grigori
Alexandrov and Ivan Pyrev were from working-class backgrounds. After
the Revolution both men gained the opportunity to study in the Proletkult
movement and moved to cinema from here as directors’ assistants.27
 FILM-MAKERS AND FILM-MAKING 175

Alexander Medvedkin also came from a poorer background. He was born

in Penza and his family were largely of peasant origin. He attended school
in his hometown before enrolling in a technical college. His brief stint in
further education was abruptly halted by the October Revolution, but
Medvedkin was politically committed, joining the Red Army in 1919
and the Communist Party in 1920. It was during his army years in the
mid-to-late 1920s that Medvedkin was given the opportunity to enter
cinema.28
Fridrikh Ermler, who was already an established director by the end
of the 1920s, also took advantage of the opportunities provided by the
October Revolution. Fridrikh Ermler was in fact an adopted name; he
was born as Vladimir Markovich Breslav into a petty bourgeois Jewish
family in 1898. By 1918, after a spell in the army, he had become a
Bolshevik sympathiser and a spy (hence the pseudonym Fridrikh Ermler),
later joining the Party and working for the Cheka where he was involved
in the serious work of a Revolutionary military tribunal. In an unusual
career change, Ermler managed to gain entry to the Leningrad Institute
of Screen Arts to follow his love of acting, but he did not graduate and
turned his attention to directing. His first real break in the industry came
as a short-lived assistant to the director Pavel Petrov-Bytov and some early
unsuccessful attempts at making his own films.29
Yuli Raizman was born in Moscow in 1903. The details of his early
life remain somewhat obscure, but we can probably state that Raizman
was from a middle or lower middle-class family. In contrast to directors
such as Ermler or Pyrev, Raizman had a good education. He attended
the pre-Revolutionary gymnasium which was essentially an elite secondary
school intended to prepare students for university. After the Revolution,
Raizman studied in various specialist art and theatre workshops, before
entering Moscow University to study in the literary-artistic faculty where
he graduated in 1924. His first job after graduation was as a literary
consultant at the Mezhrabpom-Rus studio where he became interested
in the work of the film director. Raizman got his first opportunity when
he was appointed to work as Konstantin Eggert’s assistant on the film The
Bear’s Wedding at that same studio. Raizman also worked as an assistant to
Yakov Protazanov, but continued to dream of making his own film.
Thus, excluding Raizman, for men like Alexandrov, Ermler, Pyrev
and Medvedkin the Soviet system provided opportunities that they may
not have benefited from under a tsarist regime. Yet, there is no simple
correlation between the opportunities brought by the advent of communism
176 SOVIET CINEMA

and the production of ‘correct’ films. In the case of Medvedkin there was
a firm commitment to the communist case, but on his own unique terms.
We have also seen that very few of the proletarian and peasant cadres
who entered cinema education in the late 1920s and early 1930s would
forge any career at all for themselves in the film industry. Other film-
makers, such as Lev Kuleshov, were of aristocratic origins, but the majority
were either from a middle or lower middle-class background and personal
struggle or childhood poverty were not typical experiences for most of
them. It has become something of a cliché to assume that the artist under
the Soviet regime was generally locked in a persistent struggle with a
repressive state. While there is some truth in this, it is not unreasonable to
consider directors, such as Ermler and many others, to be true believers
in the political ideal.
However, there were other sources of motivation which were arguably
even stronger. Certain directors, including Pyrev and Ermler, had
experienced the difficulties of censorship early in their careers and knew
that efforts to exercise full artistic licence could jeopardise their future. In
the early 1930s both considered the idea of retiring early from cinema. If
they wanted to continue to work in the industry it was clear that making
films that fulfilled the utilitarian demands of a consolidated Stalinist
leadership would make their lives far easier and their careers infinitely
more secure. Moreover, the the promise of material wealth that the
majority of the population could only dream about was also a key factor.
In terms of salaries and other material rewards it was clearly profitable
for film-makers to commit themselves to making films that glorified the
communist state and its leaders. In a country where the majority of
ordinary people led very difficult lives, the temptation to please in return
for a comfortable and prestigious lifestyle was clearly too great for many
artists.
The ‘cinema for the millions’ agenda was compromised by a
defensive mentality obsessed with reaching and persuading the people
with its political ideas and messages, which all too often sidelined the
entertainment aspect of cinema, essential in gaining the attention and
sympathy of the mass audience. Films preoccupied with ordinary people
coming to political consciousness, understanding, supporting and
actively playing their part in the Soviet system revealed the desire among
Party leaders, cinema administrators and some artists to see the illusion
of widespread regime support to at least come alive on the screen, as it
had not really happened in reality. We have argued here that a significant
 FILM-MAKERS AND FILM-MAKING 177

proportion of Soviet films produced in the 1930s sought to transfer a

large amount of political responsibility for the regime’s shortcomings
on to the ordinary person. This contributed to an excessive politicisation
of Soviet cinema which meant that the ‘cinema for the millions’ did not
reach the level of fruition that it could have done, even given the difficult
structural circumstances.
 CONCLUSION

W
hen they seized power after the October Revolution in 1917,
the Bolsheviks suffered from a substantial political legitimacy
deficit due to their minority status and the irreconcilable gap
between their promises of mass liberation from exploitation and toil and
the impending harsh realities of collectivisation and industrialisation.
These uneasy political foundations meant that the Bolsheviks were always
on the defensive and cinema became a key part of the strategy not only
as a means of education or mobilisation, but to defend the very existence
and legitimacy of the Soviet regime. Defensive Bolshevik thinking
manifested itself in different forms.
In the first place I examined the role of government, Party and
administrative decision-making, as well as the development of the Soviet
cinema’s industry and infrastructure. The defensive mentality guided the
form of state decrees, decision-making and administration. The 1930s sees
a gradual shift from a preoccupation with narrowing the development gap
in cinema to organising the cinema industry on centralised principles. This
shift is both evident in official government and Party decision-making, as
well as industry administration. At this time the administration came under
increasing pressure not only to create an industry that was economically
successful and independent of imports from the West, but also ideologically
sound. However, the impact of defensiveness had unintended negative
consequences. Boris Shumiatsky, the cinema chairman, reacted to increasing
centralisation and his own decreasing autonomy by devising an individual
defensive strategy to protect his position of power. This involved an attempt
to prove his credentials as an ideal Bolshevik leader of Soviet cinema, in
the course of which Shumiatsky became obsessed with micro-managing
the industry. His everyday activities shifted from a concern with broader
180 SOVIET CINEMA

industry development to checking every film script before production,

controlling individuals’ movements and writing letters to Stalin and Molotov,
pleading for funds or approval of some sort. This made a huge contribution
to stunting the growth and success of Soviet cinema. In this way, Bolshevik
defensiveness had an effect on the day-to-day operation of the system, as
well as its output. Paradoxically, the desire to defend and protect thus provided
the source of the system’s paralysis as well as its chaotic aspects. It helped
create elaborate structures of control while simultaneously undermining these
principles of organisation by taking them to absurd levels.
I also examined the system of film censorship that developed from
the end of the 1920s until the outbreak of war with Germany in 1941.
The analysis indicated that censorship was often inconsistent and
ineffective. Nonetheless, in the 1930s it became increasingly draconian.
It was argued that censorship tended to reflect the defensive mentality of
those who made the decisions on whether films could be released. On
the one hand, this led to an obsession with ideological correctness, whereby
one institution of censorship would give way to another in the hope that
a new body could be more effective at unearthing politically suspect scripts
or films. On the other hand, defensive insecurity obliged the Bolsheviks
frequently to denounce popular entertainment, both foreign and Soviet,
and this had a negative impact on the fruition of the cinema for the
millions project, as the priorities of politics were increasingly given more
value.
Despite the Bolsheviks’ elaborate efforts to defend their hold on power
and hope that the masses would eventually come round to and support
their way of thinking, as time wore on it became increasingly clear that
the people were not with the Bolsheviks. To some extent, defensive
frustration over their unpopularity and a complete lack of ideas were
among the main reasons why the Bolsheviks turned to violence and
increasingly coercive measures. Cinema, one of the key methods of
gaining mass support, was subject to violent attack for the same reasons
as other sectors of the economy. Nonetheless, it was argued that cinema,
which had failed to produce under the command system, was particularly
targeted following the turn of many industry figures to the West for
ideas and production techniques. The frustrations of failure and the
absence of mass support, to a great extent, resulted in a blame culture.
Cinema was supposedly failing not because of inherent systemic faults,
but due to class enemies, wreckers and saboteurs, who sought to
undermine the system at every turn.
 CONCLUSION 181

The analysis also looked at the role of the thematic plan in the Soviet
film industry. As a means of protecting their power and ideology, the
Bolsheviks sought to maintain at least the illusion that they had secured
mass consent. Thus controls over the content of film production were
part of the process of regime legitimacy and an integral part of cinema
industry development in the 1930s. This was evident in censorship, but
also in the system of thematic planning whereby the Party would support
the use of movie themes that were particularly relevant to government
policy and which defended the history of the regime. For instance, the
late 1930s saw the emergence of many anti-fascist films in response to
the rise of the Nazis in Germany and, at the same time, a series of feature
films indicating that the USSR should be prepared for possible war. These
were accompanied by many films about the Revolution, its leaders or
senior Bolsheviks. However, the strengthening of thematic planning after
a weak start led, once again, to unintended consequences. Not only did
thematic plans fail to provide a guarantee of ideological soundness, but
they were organisationally weak and wasteful of scant resources. The
obsession with defending and protecting the politically sacred and the
need to defend current policy, which was always changing, brought the
Soviet film industry to the brink of collapse.
From Chapter Five, the emphasis shifted towards the role of the
film-makers in the Soviet film industry at this time. I discussed the nature
of unions and societies. It was pointed out that the efforts to involve the
masses in the development of the industry were transitory, while the
bodies responsible for representing the interests of film-makers and the
broader workforce, as well as the organisations created to provide a
forum for debate, increasingly failed to fulfil their tasks. Nonetheless, it
was argued that a privileged group of film-makers had emerged by the
second half of the 1930s for whom such representation was less vital.
This group, which even had a significant degree of administrative and
artistic decision-making influence for a few years, enjoyed living in
spacious flats, driving nice cars, going abroad to Europe and America
and having a high income, as well as access to production finances that
were beyond the reach of most aspiring film-makers. Thus, while this
elite still protested about the state of the film industry, they were often
happy to make politically orthodox films in order to guarantee continued
prosperity.
Subsequently, I drew a comparison between the Mezhabpomfilm and
Mosfilm studios in the 1930s. The chapter compared the manner in which
182 SOVIET CINEMA

the power shifted away from the studios and their directors from relatively
significant administrative and economic power to a severe reduction in
autonomy by the end of the decade. It also compared the nature of the
film-making process in relation to this reduced independence and
increasing bureaucratisation. This comparison gave us an insight into
just how strongly the ingrained Bolshevik defensive mentality was, as well
as indicating that the film-maker elite did not entirely subscribe to the
dominant mode of political thought. At the close of the 1930s unexpected
reforms included the establishment of artistic councils in the studios, aimed
at giving the film-makers a significant say in the artistic and administrative
decision-making process. Although most film-makers had produced
politically ‘correct’ films in the 1930s, when they were given power in an
administrative sense, they often supported productions that were at odds
with political and ideological demands from above. Nonetheless, this
power also helped to cement their position as part of the film-making
elite. As already noted in relation to censorship, perceived weaknesses in
filtering ideologically weak films led to a series of institutional reactions
and, despite the promising signs of flexibility, the studios were no different.
In the 1940s the film-makers, who were not trusted politically, were edged
out of the councils in favour of Party representatives, thus a retreat had
taken place. The defensive mentality had, once again, undermined a
potentially fruitful direction.
The analysis looked at film education, with particular attention to the
State Film Institute. Part of the plan for the cinema industry as a means of
ideological defence was the creation of a politically and artistically trained
workforce that could ensure Soviet cinema would make the technical and
artistic leap into the future. I argued that, while the Bolsheviks knew how
important this was for the successful future of Soviet cinema, it failed to
adequately manage and provide even basic investment, leaving film
education in a parlous state. Consequently, the Institute lacked purpose,
as a very small minority of its graduates would manage to carve
meaningful careers in the film industry. Indeed, the young graduates’
struggle to break through was not helped by the fact that the privileged
group of largely older, established film-makers occupied the top positions
at most of the studios and were, perhaps, reluctant to give up their
comfortable lifestyles to facilitate career mobilisation. The State Institute’s
isolation from production realities can also be applied to its teaching.
Dominated by political and artistic outsiders, the Institute leaned towards
an open-minded and often avant-garde inspired teaching programme,
 CONCLUSION 183

which was denied any real practical application in the new mass-orientated
cinema of the 1930s.
We also considered the role of the film-makers and the films
themselves. The final chapter looked at the broad range of films being
produced during the 1930s. It contended that the fruition of a successful
cinema for the millions agenda was compromised by a defensive mentality
which demanded the fulfilment of a communist civilising mission and
the heavy politicisation of popular film content. It was noted that there
were exceptions to the formulaic movies of the time, especially the work
of Alexander Medvedkin, who showed that satire and, sometimes, honest
self-criticism might be a more effective political tactic than defensiveness
and denial. Other film-makers, such as Yuli Raizman, committed
themselves to the thematic formalities of the industry, but offered a more
nuanced view of the revolutionary past. Nonetheless, while the 1930s
offers more variety than one might expect, towards the end of the decade
politicisation increases. It was contended that a significant proportion of
Soviet films produced in the 1930s sought to transfer a large amount of
political responsibility for the regime’s shortcomings on to the ordinary
person. This contributed to an excessive politicisation of Soviet cinema
which meant that the ‘cinema for the millions’ did not reach the level of
fruition that it could have done, even given the difficult structural
circumstances. The film-making elite were broadly complicit in this trend,
although this varied from case to case. Some had experienced difficult
early lives and the Soviet regime provided them with genuine
opportunities. Others had later witnessed the barriers in the film industry
and thus realised that creative independence had to be sacrificed to an
extent. In all cases, however, financial gain, personal security and prestige
were all undoubtedly central motivating factors.
In the end the Bolshevik obsession with defending and protecting the
regime and everything it stood for transformed Soviet cinema into a
bureaucratic monolith in the 1930s. All the aforementioned policies and
measures concerning the film industry and its films point to the fact that
the Bolsheviks elaborate attempts to protect their illegitimate regime
through cinema, paradoxically, undermined that industry and all their
hopes for it, including the ‘cinema for the millions’ agenda which promised
so much, but delivered so little.
 NOTES
Introduction
1 See Dwight McDonald, ‘Soviet Cinema, 1930–1940, A History,’ in On Movies
(Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall, 1969). This work, originally carried out in
the late 1930s, foresaw the development of later, more systematic ‘totalitarian’
accounts. The most influential of these is Peter Kenez, Cinema and Soviet Society from
the Revolution to the Death of Stalin, 2nd edn (London: I.B.Tauris, 2001).
2 See Richard Taylor, The Politics of Soviet Cinema, 1917–1929 (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1979).
3 See Richard Taylor, ‘Soviet Socialist Realism and the Cinema Avant-Garde’, Studies
in Comparative Communism, 3 & 4 (1984), 185–202. Richard Taylor, ‘Boris Shumiatsky
and the Soviet Cinema in the 1930s: ideology as mass entertainment’, Historical
Journal of Film, Radio and Television, 6 (1986), 43–64.
4 The Film Factory: Russia and Soviet cinema in documents, ed. by Richard Taylor and Ian
Christie (Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press, 1988).
5 Stalinism and Soviet Cinema, ed. by Richard Taylor, and Derek Spring (London:
Routledge, 1993).
6 For the earlier theory, see Denise Youngblood, Soviet Cinema in the Silent Era, 1919–
1935 (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1991). The amended theory is outlined in
Denise Youngblood, Movies for the Masses (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1993).
7 See Alentina Rubailo, Partiinoe rukovodstvo razvitiem kinoiskusstva 1928–1937 (Moscow:
Moskovskii universitet, 1976). For examples of more recent Russian studies of the
1930s, See Kino: politika i liudi, ed. by Lidiia Mamatova (Moscow: Materik, 1995).
See the bibliography for examples of recent published archival sources
8 Natacha Laurent, L’Oeil du Kremlin: cinéma et censure en URSS sous Staline (Toulouse:
Privat, 2000).
9 Eberhard Nembach, Stalins Filmpolitik: Der Umbau der Sowjetischen Filmindustrie 1929
bis 1938 (St. Augustin: Gardez! Verlag, 2001).
10 See John Haynes, New Soviet Man (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2003)
and Emma Widdis, Visions of a New Land (London: Yale University Press, 2003).
Evgeny Dobrenko, Stalinist Cinema and the Production of History: Museum of the Revolution
(Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2008). The journal, Studies in Russian and
Soviet Cinema, is published by Intellect.
186 SOVIET CINEMA

11 Economic and technical matters are addressed in Kenez, Cinema and Soviet Society, pp.
118–24. An important recent examination of industry development during the first
Five-Year Plan can be found in Vance Kepley Jr, ‘The First Perestroika: Soviet Cinema
under the First Five-Year Plan’, Cinema Journal, 35 (1996), 4, pp. 31–53. Kepley offers
an extremely detailed analysis, which focuses on the institutional changes in Soviet
cinema in the late 1920s and early 1930s. For a Soviet perspective on industry
development in the 1930s, see Dvadtsat' let sovetskoi kinematografii, ed. by N. Semenov
and L. Cherniabskii (Moscow: Goskinoizdat, 1940).
12 The main English language exception is Vance Kepley’s pioneering article ‘Building a
National Cinema: Soviet Film Education, 1918–1934’, Wide Angle, 9 (1987), 3, 4–20.
13 The first Soviet work on the purges of the cinema industry emerged at the end of
the 1980s: see Anatolii Latyshev, ‘Stalin i kino’, in Surovaia drama naroda, ed. by Iurii
Senokosov (Moscow: Izdanie politicheskoi literatury, 1989), pp. 489–511. In
subsequent years, the following two articles were published: Arkadii Bernshtein,
‘Sochli vragami naroda’, Iskusstvo kino, 3 (1993), pp. 92–99; Anatolii Latyshev,
‘Poimenno nazvat'’, in Kino: politika i liudi, pp. 157–60. Denise Youngblood offers a
rare Western account of the earlier purges between 1929 and the early 1930s in
her Soviet Cinema in the Silent Era, pp. 189–204.
14 See for example, Fernand Braudel, The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in
the Age of Philip II, trans. Siân Reynolds, 2 vols (London: Fontana, 1975) and Lucien
Febvre, The Problem of Unbelief in the Sixteenth Century (Cambridge Mass.: Harvard
University Press, 1982).
15 For example, see Robert Tucker, Stalin in Power. The Revolution from Above, 1928–41
(London: Norton, 1990) and, more recently, Kevin McDermott, Stalin: Revolutionary
in an Era of War (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006).
16 See Marc Ferro, The Russian Revolution of February 1917, trans. J. L. Richards (London:
Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1972) and Geoffrey Hosking, Russia and the Russians: From
Earliest Times to 2001 (London: Allen Lane The penguin Press, 2001).
17 Peter R. Campbell, ‘The new History: the Annales school of history and modern
historiography’, in Historical Controversies and Historians, ed. by William Lamont
(London: UCL Press, 1998).
18 The summary of this approach is drawn from Colin Hay, ‘Structure and Agency’,
in Theory and Methods in Political Science, ed. by David Marsh and Gerry Stoker
(London: MacMillan, 1995), pp. 189–206.
19 Daryl Glaser, ‘Marxism and Democracy’, in Marxism and Social science, ed. by Andrew
Gamble, David Marsh and Tony Tant (London: MacMillan Press, 1999), pp. 239–258.
20 Crawford Brough MacPherson, The Real World of Democracy (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1972), pp. 12–22.
21 See for instance Robert Conquest, The Great Terror: A Reassessment (New York: Oxford
University Press, 1990).
22 Richard Sakwa, Russian Politics and Society, 3rd edition (London: Routledge, 2002), p.
341. Communist Political Systems: An Introduction, ed. by Stephen White, John Gardner
and George Schöpflin (London: MacMillan, 1982), pp. 28–43.

Chapter 1
1 Youngblood, Soviet Cinema in the Silent Era, pp. 157–60.
2 B. S. Ol'khovyi, ed., ‘Party Cinema Conference Resolution: The Results of Cinema
 N OTES 187

Construction in the USSR and the Tasks of Soviet Cinema’, Document 83

translated in, The Film Factory, pp. 209–10.
3 The Film Factory, pp. 210–11, 383–84.
4 Postanovlenie TsK VKP(b), ‘O rukovodiashchikh kadrakh rabotnikov kinematografii’,
document 44 in Sovetskoe kino (1917–1978): Resheniia partii i pravitel'stva o kino, sbornik
dokumentov, ed. by Nataliia Volkova, Sergei Drobashenko and Rostislav Iurenev,
Vol. 1 (Moscow: NIITIKG/TsGALI, 1979), p. 82.
5 Rossiiskii Gosudarstvennyi Arkhiv Literatury i Iskusstva (RGALI), ‘Stenogramma
zasedaniia kommissii po chistke chlenov ARRK’, in The Association of Workers of
Revolutionary Cinematography (Woodbridge, CT: Research Publications, 1999),
microfilm reel 11, f. 2494, op. 1, delo. 295, l. 29.
6 Nikolai Lebedev, ‘Kino-proizvodstvo – pod kontrol' rabochikh shefov’, Vecherniaia
Moskva, 15 December 1930, p. 3.
7 Postanovlenie Sovnarkoma (SNK) SSSR, ‘Polozhenie o kino-komitete pri Sovete
Narodnykh Kommissarov Soiuza SSR’, document 45 in Sovetskoe kino, pp. 85–86.
Vladimir Mikhailov, ‘Stalinskaia model' upravleniia kinematografom’, in Kino:
politika i liudi, p. 14. Iz Postanovleniia TsIK SSSR i SNK SSSR, ‘O nalagovykh
l'gotakh dlia kinopromyshlennosti’, document 46 in Sovetskoe kino, pp. 86–87.
8 Iz Postanovleniia TsIK SSSR i Sovnarkoma SSSR, ‘O fondakh kinofikatsii’, document
47 in Sovetskoe kino, pp. 87–88. Postanovlenie SNK SSSR, ‘Ob usilenii proizvodstva
i pokaza politiko-prosvetitel'nykh kino-kartin’, document 55 in Sovetskoe kino, pp.
92–94. Postanovlenie Sovnarkoma SSSR, ‘Ob obrazovanii obshchesoiuznogo
ob''edineniia po kino-fotopromyshlennosti’, document 56 in Sovetskoe kino, pp. 94–
95.
9 ‘Ustav gosudarstvennogo vsesoiuznogo kino-fotoob''edineniia “Soiuzkino”’,
document 193 in Sobranie zakonov, 1930, pt. 2, pp. 567–73.
10 RGALI, f. 2497, op. 1, d. 4, ll. 1–37. Mikhailov, ‘Stalinskaia model'’, p. 15. RGALI,
f. 2497, op. 1, d. 1, l. 45.
11 RGALI, f. 2497, op. 1, d. 1, l. 56.
12 RGALI, f. 2497, op. 1, d. 20, ll. 22–27.
13 RGALI, f. 2497, op. 1, d. 20, l. 61.
14 RGALI, f. 2497, op. 1, d. 1a, l. 153.
15 RGALI, f. 2497, op. 1, d. 22, l. 122. RGALI, f. 2497, op. 1, delo. 20, ll. 184–90.
16 RGALI, f. 2497, op. 1, d. 22, l. 182.
17 RGALI, f. 2497, op. 1, d. 22, ll. 182–83.
18 Ippolit Sokolov, ‘Tekhnicheskaia baza Sovetskogo tonkino’, Kino i zhizn', 12 (1930),
18–19.
19 Nikolai Anoshchenko, ‘Tekhnicheskaia pomoshch' zagranitsy nashemu kino’, Kino
i zhizn', 9 (1930), 14.
20 RGALI, f. 2497, op. 1, d. 3, l. 229.
21 RGALI, f. 2497, op. 1, d. 20, ll. 269–273.
22 RGALI, f. 2498, op. 1, d. 32, ll. 26–29.
23 Boris Shumiatskii, ‘Signal trevogi’, Proletarskoe kino, 5–6 (1931), 5–7.
24 See ‘Cinema Installations and Their Distribution in the Russian Empire and the
USSR, 1914–41’, table 1, translated in The Film Factory, p. 423. M. Ryzhkov,
‘Kinofikatsiia SSSR’ in Dvadtsat' let Sovetskoi kinematografii, p. 170.
25 I. Diakonov, ‘Ogromnye zadachi’, Kino, 11 February, 1939, p. 2.
188 SOVIET CINEMA

26 ‘Iz otcheta Moskovskogo soveta o kinoobsluzhivanii naseleniia’, document 165 in

Vo glave kul'turnogo stroitel'stva, Kniga 1, ed. by M. Akifeva and A. Sleshina (Moscow,
Moskovskii rabochii, 1983), p. 310.
27 Bella Kashin, ‘The Cinema in Russia’, New York Times, October 15, 1933.
28 B. Kotiev, ‘Zvukofikatsiia sela’, Kino, 6 Nov 1935, p. 5. B. Bagrin, ‘Bol'nye voprosy
kinofikatsii derevni’, Kino, 16 Feb 1936, p. 4. E. Sheval, ‘Kinoset’ i prodvizhenie
fil'mov’, Kino, 22 Dec 1934, p.4. Anon.,‘Kino na severe’, Kino, 17 February 1939, p.
4. Diakonov, ‘Ogromnye zadachi’, p. 2.
29 N. Liadov, ‘Sledia za reklamoi’, Vecherniaia Moskva, 26 July 1933, p. 3.
30 Nembach, Stalins Filmpolitik, pp. 67–68. N. Ivanov, ‘Kinoobsluzhivanie derevni v
zagone’, Kino, 22 June 1936, p. 3. Anon., ‘S prokatom plokho’, Kino, 22 December
1936, p. 4.
31 B. Kotiev, ‘Problema kopii’, Kino, 5 May 1935, p. 1. Kotiev also notes that the
overall quantity of prints available in the USSR in 1934 was 24,355. This figure
actually decreased over the next few years to 17,000 in 1938 and only returned to
just over 25,000 the following year. This was probably due to the sizeable number
of Soviet and foreign silent films that were gradually falling out of circulation and
the failure of the copy factories to compensate by producing good enough quantities
of new films. On later print runs, see Anon., ‘V komitete po delam kinematografii’,
Kino, 3 November 1939, p. 4. K. Svetlanin, ‘Neskol'ko voprosov Soiuzkinoprokatu’,
Kino, 11 October 1939, p. 4. For the American statistics, see Chester Bahn, ‘Industry
Statistics’, in The 1941 Film Daily Year Book of Motion Pictures, ed. by Jack Alicoate
(New York: The Film Daily, 1941), pp. 35–47.
32 Anon., ‘570 kopii’, Kino, 1 December 1939, p. 4. Svetlanin, ‘Neskol'ko voprosov.
33 S. Osipov, ‘Stolichnyi kinoteatr’, Vecherniaia Moskva, 7 September 1938, p. 3.
34 P. Tikhonravov, ‘O strannostiakh prokata’, Kino, 29 June 1939, p. 4.
35 A. Kaliuzhnyi, ‘Sovetskaia kinoplenka i ee nedostatki’, Proletarskoe kino, 17–18 (1932),
46–50.
36 RGALI, f. 2496. op. 2. d.1, ll. 1–10. Aleksandr Troshin, ed.,‘“Kartina sil'naia,
khoroshaia, no ne Chapaev”. Zapisi besed B. Z. Shumiatskogo s I. V. Stalinym posle
kinoprosmotrov 1935–1937 gg.’, Kinovedcheskie Zapiski, 62 (2003), 115–88 (p. 132).
37 Ivan Bol'shakov, ‘O prieme del novym rukovodstvom komiteta i o zadachakh vtorogo
polugodiia’, Kino, 18 August 1939, p. 3. Anon., ‘Kino v zelenom teatre’, Vecherniaia
Moskva, 20 February 1935, p. 3.
38 Aleksandr Troshin, ed., ‘“A driani podobno ‘Garmon’’ bol'she ne stavite?” Zapisi
besed B. Z. Shumiatskogo s I. V. Stalinym posle kinoprosmotrov 1935–1937 gg.’,
Kinovedcheskie zapiski, 61 (2002), 281–346 (p. 293).
39 Vladimir Verlinskii, ‘Ten Years of Soviet Films in The United States’, in The 1937
Film Daily Year Book of Motion Pictures, ed. by Jack Alicoate (New York: The Film
Daily, 1937), pp.1170–71.
40 See endnote number 34, in Andrei Artizov and Oleg Naumov, Vlast' i khudozhestvennaia
intelligentsiia (Moscow: Demokratiia, 1999), pp. 777–78. Paul Babitskii and John Rimberg,
The Soviet Film Industry (New York: Praeger, 1955), p. 260.
41 Anon., Vneshniaia torgovlia SSSR za 1918–1940: statisticheskii obzor (Moscow:
Vneshtorgizdat, 1960), pp. 126, 160.
42 Efraim Lemberg, Kinopromyshlennost' SSSR: ekonomika sovetskoi kinematografii (Moscow:
Teakinopechat', 1930), p. 89.
 NOTES 189

43 ‘Dogovor mezhdu aktsionernym obshchestvom “Amkino Korporeishin” i

Soiuzintorgkino ob iskliuchitel'nom prave prodazhi produktsii sovetskoi
kinematografii na territorii SShA, gosudartsv Latinskoi Ameriki i Kanady’,
document 57 in Rossiia i SShA: ekonomicheskie otnosheniia 1933–1941: Sbornik dokumentov,
ed. by G. Sevostianov and E. Tiurina, (Moscow: Nauka, 2001), pp. 124–27. Anon.,
Vneshniaia torgovlia, pp. 126, 160.
44 Postanovlenie Sovnarkoma SSSR, ‘Ob organisatsii glavnogo upravleniia kino-foto-
promyshlennosti pri SNK Soiuza SSR’, document 74 in Sovetskoe kino, pp. 110–12.
45 Polozhenie ‘O glavnom upravlenii kino-foto-promyshlennosti pri SNK Soiuza SSR’,
document 75 in Sovetskoe kino, pp. 112–14.
46 Anon., ‘V GUKF’ in Kino, 16 September 1934, p. 4.
47 Anon., ‘V GUKF’ in Kino, 16 September 1934, p. 4. Anon., ‘V GUK’ in Kino, 28
August 1936, p. 4.
48 Taylor, ‘Boris Shumiatskii and the Soviet Cinema’, pp. 48–54. Boris Shumiatskii,
‘Za tempy i ritm sotsialisticheskogo realisma’, Kino, 16 March 1935, p. 2.
49 Boris Shumiatskii,‘Rukovodit'po novomu’, Kino, 17 October 1935, p. 1.
50 Arkadii Bernshtein, ‘Gollivud bez kheppi-enda’, Kinovedcheskie zapiski, 60 (2002),
213–59 (p. 238). Boris Shumiatskii, ‘Za bol'shuiu Sovetskuiu kinematografiiu’,
Kino, 16 December 1935, p. 1.
51 Troshin, ‘Kartina sil'naia, khoroshaia, no ne Chapaev’, p. 178. P. Millin, ‘Kinobaza
na iuge’, Kino, 8 October 1934, p. 1.
52 Shumiatskii, ‘Za bol'shuiu’, p. 1. Taylor, ‘Boris Shumiatskii and the Soviet Cinema’,
p. 59.
53 Shumiatskii, ‘Za bol'shuiu’, p. 1. The original estimate of 305 million roubles was
put forward in his December 1935 speech, but this was amended to nearly 400
million roubles in a publication, based on this speech, that was issued in 1936. See
Taylor, ‘Boris Shumiatskii and the Soviet Cinema’, p. 60. Anon., ‘V GUKF’ in
Kino, 4 July 1936, p. 4.
54 Troshin, ‘Kartina sil'naia, khoroshaia, no ne Chapaev’, pp. 153–54.
55 Bernshtein, ‘Gollivud bez kheppi-enda’, p. 245.
56 Troshin, ‘Kartina sil'naia, khoroshaia, no ne Chapaev’, p. 179.
57 Postanovlenie TsIK SSSR i SNK SSSR, ‘Ob obrazovanii Vsesoiuznogo Komiteta po
delam Iskusstv pri SNK Soiuza SSR’, document 90 in Sovetskoe kino, pp. 132–33.
58 Platon Kerzhentsev, ‘Za bol'shoe iskusstvo sotsializma’, Kino, 18 February 1936, p.1.
59 Platon Kerzhentsev, ‘Postanovlenie no. 39 Vsesoiuznogo Komiteta po Delam Iskusstv
pri SNK SSSR’, Kino, 4 August 1936, p. 1.
60 Anon.,‘V GUK’, Kino, 17 August 1936, p. 4. Platon Kerzhentsev, ‘Prikaz No. 360’,
Kino, 22 August 1936, p. 1.
61 ‘Dokladnaia zapiska predsedatelia Komiteta po delam iskusstv pri SNK SSSR
P.M. Kerzhentseva V.M. Molotovu o konflikte c B.Z. Shumiatskim’, document
111 in Kremlevskii kinoteatr, 1928–1953, ed. by Kirill Anderson and others (Moscow:
Rosspen, 2005), pp. 340–41.
62 ‘Dokladnaia zapiska B.Z. Shumiatskogo I.V. Stalinu, V.M. Molotovu I A.A. Andreevu
o nedootsenke redaktsiei gazety “Izvestiia” sovetskogo kinoiskusstva’, document
159 in Kremlevskii kinoteatr, pp. 438–39.
63 ‘O priznanii utrativshimi silu riada postanovlenii SNK Soiuza SSR v sviazi s
obrazovaniem Vsesoiuznogo Komiteta po Delam Iskusstv pri SNK Soiuza SSR’,
190 SOVIET CINEMA

document 158 in Sobranie zakonov, 1937, p. 360.

64 ‘Dokladnaia zapiska B.Z. Shumiatskogo V.M. Molotovu o kinofikatsii bol'shogo
Kremlevskogo dvortsa’, document 168 in Kremlevskii kinoteatr, p. 455.
65 ‘Zapiska B.Z. Shumiatskii I.V. Stalinu i V.M. Molotovu o kinoplenke dlia operatorov
v Ispanii’, document 121 in Kremlevskii kinoteatr, p.363.
66 ‘Dokladnaia zapiska B.Z. Shumiatskogo I.V. Stalinu o pabote nad vtoroi seriei
kinofil'ma Petr 1’, document 165 in Kremlevskii kinoteatr, pp. 449–50.
67 Troshin, ‘Kartina sil'naia, khoroshaia, no ne Chapaev’, p. 162.
68 ‘Pis'mo konsul'tanta GUK G.V. Zel'dovicha v KPK pri TsK VKP(b) o B.Z.
Shumiatskom’, document 171 in Kremlevskii kinoteatr, pp. 472–73.
69 ‘Pis'mo predsedateliu komiteta po delam kinematografii tov. Dukel'skomu’, Kinovedcheskie
Zapiski, 41 (2002), 7–22 (pp. 20–22). Kenez, Cinema and Soviet Society, p. 136.
70 Pis'mo konsul'tanta GUK G.V. Zel'dovicha’, in Kremlevskii kinoteatr, pp. 469–70.
71 Troshin, ‘Kartina sil'naia, khoroshaia, no ne Chapaev’, p. 162.
72 Postanovlenie SNK SSSR, ‘Ob obrazovanii komiteta po delam kinematografii pri
SNK Soiuza SSR’, document 2 in Sovetskoe kino (1917–1978): Resheniia partii i pravitel'stva
o kino, sbornik dokumentov, ed. by Nataliia Volkova, Sergei Drobashenko and Rostislav
Iurenev, Vol. 2 (Moscow: NIITIKG/TsGALI, 1979), pp. 12–14.
73 A. Arakelov, ‘Nepravil'noe planirovanie’, Kino, 5 December 1939, p. 4. V. Balandin,
‘Upravlenie kinoset'iu nado perestroit'’, Kino, 17 May 1939, p. 3. V. Maklovskii,
‘Moguchee sredstvo propagandy’, Kino, 5 April 1939, p. 3.
74 Postanovlenie SNK SSSR, ‘Ob ulushenii organizatsii proizvodstva kinokartin’,
document 3 in Sovetskoe kino, Vol. 2, pp. 15–18.
75 Mikhailov, ‘Stalinskaia model'’, p. 20.
76 Taylor, ‘Boris Shumiatskii and the Soviet Cinema’, p. 60.
77 Semen Dukel'skii, ‘Prikaz po komitetu po delam kinematografii pri SNK SSSR
No. 56’, Kino, 29 January 1939, p. 2. Semen Dukel'skii, ‘Prikaz po komitetu po
delam kinematografii pri SNK SSSR No. 57’, Kino, 29 January 1939, p. 2.
78 Mikhail Romm, Kak v kino (Moscow: Dekom, 2003), pp. 110–11.
79 Semen Dukel'skii, ‘Novaia sistema oplaty truda tvorcheskikh rabotnikov
kinematografii’, Kino, 5 January 1939, p. 3.
80 Semen Dukel'skii, ‘Za vysokie tempy, kachestvo i proizvoditel'nost' truda’, Kino, 5
January, 1939, p. 3.
81 Zvezdnye gody Lenfil'ma. Dir. Natalia Urvacheva. RTR Planeta, 20 January 2005.
82 See Kino, 17 July 1939, p. 1.
83 Anon., ‘Na sobranii aktiva’, Kino, 18 August 1939, pp. 3–4.
84 Olga Iumasheva and Iurii Lepikhov, ‘Fenomen totalitarnogo liberalisma’,
Kinovedcheskie zapiski, 20 (1993/94), 125–44 (p. 131).
85 Iumasheva and Lepikhov, ‘Fenomen’, pp. 134–35.
86 Iumasheva and Lepikhov, ‘Fenomen’, pp. 138–39.
87 Taylor, ‘Boris Shumiatskii and the Soviet Cinema’, p. 60. Bernshtein, ‘Gollivud bez
kheppi-enda’, pp. 222–25, 231. Grigorii Aleksandrov, Epokha i kino (Moscow:
Izdatel'stvo politicheskoi literaturoi, 1976), p. 183.

Chapter 2
1 Tatiana Goriaeva, Politicheskaia tsenzura v SSSR (Moscow: Rosspen, 2002), pp. 184–
86, 195–96.
 NOTES 191

2 Youngblood, Soviet Cinema, p. 162.

3 Evgenii Margolit and Viacheslav Shmyrov, Iz''iatoe kino (Moscow: Dubl'-D, 1995),
pp. 9–35.
4 Goriaeva, Politicheskaia tsenzura, pp. 206–07, 213.
5 RGALI, ‘Stenogramma po obsuzhdeniiu kinofil'ma “Dve materi”’, in The Association
of Workers, microfilm reel 12, f. 2494, op. 1, d. 316, ll. 1–25.
6 RGALI, ‘Protokoly diskussii po obsuzhdeniiu kinofil'ma “Stydno skazat'”’, in The
Association of Workers, microfilm reel 12, f. 2494, op. 1, d. 316, ll. 1–10. RGALI, f.
2497, op. 1, d. 22, l. 119.
7 B. Shepelev and D. Levin, ‘Kak partorganisatsiia pomogaet ukrepleniiu proizvodstva’,
Kino, 17 September 1939, p. 3.
8 RGALI, f. 2498, op. 1, d. 22, ll. 3–6.
9 RGALI, f. 2498, op. 1, d. 26, l. 76. RGALI, f. 2498, op. 1, d. 26, l. 136.
10 Nikita Lary, Dostoevsky and Soviet Film: Visions of Demonic Realism (London: Cornell
University Press, 1986), pp. 22–28.
11 Rubailo, Partiinoe rukovodstvo, pp. 134–35.
12 Mark Tkach, ‘Postanovlenie tresta Ukrainfil'm o zapreshchenii fil'ma “Strogii
iunosha”’, Kino, 28 July 1936, p. 2.
13 V. Rebrov, ed., ‘Za moe opozdanie s otvetom vini B. Z. Shumiatskogo’, Kinovedcheskie
zapiski, 24 (1994), 202–31 (p. 208–15). Margolit and Shmyrov, Iz''iatoe kino, pp. 43–
44, 58. Natacha Laurent, L’Oeil du Kremlin, p. 87.
14 ‘Postanovlenie Orgbiuro TsK VKP(b) o poriadke utverzhdeniia i temakh kinofil'mov
na 1933–1934 gg’, document 40 in Vlast' i khudozhestvennaia intelligentsiia, p. 202.
15 Viktor Listov, ‘Iz istorii partiinogo rukovodstvo kinematografom’, in Iz istorii kino,
ed. by Vladimir Mikhailov, vol. 11 (Moscow: Iskusstvo, 1983), p. 14.
16 Troshin, ed., ‘ “A driani podobno ‘Garmon'”’, pp. 292, 340–41.
17 RTsKhIDNI, f. 77, op. 1, d. 827, ll. 7–12, published in Leaders of the Russian Revolution,
text-fiche 330, pp. 7–12.
18 Leonid Maksimenkov, Sumbur vmesto muzyki. Stalinskaia kul'turnaia revoliutsiia 1936–
1938 (Moscow: Iuridicheskaia kniga, 1997), p. 294.
19 Grigorii Mar'iamov, Kremlevskii tsenzor (Moscow: Kinotsentr, 1992), pp. 3–9.
20 Aleksandrov, Epokha i kino, pp. 104–06.
21 Margolit and Shmyrov, Iz''iatoe kino, pp. 34–35.
22 George Liber, Alexander Dovzhenko: A Life in Soviet Film (London: BFI, 2002), pp.
155–69.
23 Aleksandr Dovzhenko, ‘The Artist’s Teacher and Friend’, document 148 in The
Film Factory, pp. 383–84.
24 ‘Zapiska I.V. Stalina nachal'niku glavnogo upravleniia kinematografii B.Z
Shumiatskomu po povodu stsenariia kinofil'ma “Shchors”’, document 33 in Vlast'
i khudozhestvennaia intelligentsiia, pp. 343–44.
25 Margolit and Shmyrov, Iz''iatoe kino, pp. 43–44, 60–61, 66–68.
26 ‘Postanovlenie Politbiuro TsK VKP(b) o kinokartine “Cheliuskin” ’, document 56
in Vlast' i khudozhestvennaia intelligentsiia, pp. 214–15. Maksimenkov, Sumbur vmesto
muzyki, p. 242.
27 Vladimir Nevezhin, ‘Fil'm “Zakon zhizni” i otluchenie Avdeenko: Versiia istorika’,
Kinovedcheskie zapiski, 20 (1993/94), 94–124, (pp. 96–97, 120).
28 ‘Nepravlenaia stenogramma vstupitel'nogo slova sekretaria TsK VKP(b) A. A.
192 SOVIET CINEMA

Zhdanova na soveshchanii kinematografistov v TsK VKP(b)’, document 64 in Vlast'i

khudozhestvennaia intelligentsiia, pp. 470–72.
29 ‘Postanovlenie sekretariata TsK VKP(b) o zapreshchenii k vypusku na ekran
kinofil'ma “Serdtsa cheterykh”’, document 66 in Vlast' i khudozhestvennaia intelligentsiia,
p. 473

Chapter 3
1 Research into the victims of Stalinism is a massive and ongoing project. This
chapter does not claim to offer a comprehensive account of the victims in the area
of cinema nor does it provide specific and accurate numbers of those who fell
victim. This would require further research beyond the scope of this work. Instead
the aim is to provide a much clearer picture and attempt to establish why and how
the cinema industry and those who worked in it were caught up in the purges. For
examples of existing research see the introduction endnotes. The sources used
here include archival documents, as well as recent publications of the remarkable
‘Memorial’ society. Many of these publications are now available on-line at
www.memo.ru. The most comprehensive Russian factual source on the purge victims
in cinema is Aleksandr Deriabin’s volume, Letopis' Rossiiskogo kino 1930–1945 which
has been referred to here.
2 RGALI, f. 2497, op. 1, d. 43, l. 36. RGALI, f. 2497, op. 1, d. 5, l. 4.
3 Mikhailov, ‘Stalinskaia model'’, pp. 9–25 (pp. 15–16). RGALI, f. 2497, op. 1, d. 1, l. 45.
4 Tsentral'nyi Arkhiv Federal'noi Sluzhby Bezopasnosti Rossiskii Federatsii (TsA FSB
Rossii), ‘Iz doklada sekretno-politicheskogo otdela OGPU “Ob antisovetskoi
deiatelnosti sredi intelligentsii za 1931 god”’, document 72 in Vlast' i khudozhestvennaia
intelligentsiia, p. 161. Bernshtein, ‘Sochli vragami’, pp. 92–93.
5 Arkhiv Prezidenta Rossiskoi Federatsii (APRF), ‘Pis'mo zamestitelia predsedatelia
OGPU Ia. S. Agranova I. V. Stalinu ob areste N. R. Erdmana, V. Z. Massa i E.
Germana’, document 45 in Vlast'i khudozhestvennaia intelligentsiia, p. 207. Vernite mne
svobodu: deiateli literatury i iskusstva Rossii i Germanii – zhertvy stalinskogo terrora, ed. by
Vladimir Koliazin and Vladimir Goncharov (Moscow: Medium, 1997), pp. 14–
20.
6 RGALI, f. 2496, op. 2, d. 15, l. 39. RGALI, f. 2496, op. 2, d. 15, l. 51.
7 RGALI, f. 2496, op. 2, d. 11, l. 7.
8 RGALI, f. 2496, op. 2, d. 15, l. 34.
9 RGALI, f. 2496, op. 2, d. 15, l. 51. Jay Leyda, Kino, A History of the Russian and Soviet
Film (London: George Allen & Unwin Ltd, 1960), p. 280.
10 Kino: Entsiklopedicheskii slovar', ed. by Sergei Iutkevich (Moscow: Sovetskaia
entsiklopediia, 1987), p. 130.
11 RGALI, f. 2496, op. 2, d. 15, l. 58.
12 RGALI, f. 2497, op. 1, d. 43, l. 65. Stepan Keverkov, ‘V dni mira i voiny’, in Zhizn'
v kino, ed. by O. Nesterovich (Moscow: Iskusstvo, 1979), p. 78.
13 RGALI, f. 2498, op. 1, d. 23, l. 96.
14 Natalia Nusinova and Iurii Tsivian, ‘Aleinikov, M. Zapiski kinematografista’, Iskusstvo
kino, 7 (1996), 104–06.
15 Aleksandr Deriabin, Letopis' Rossiiskogo kino 1930–1945 (Moscow: Materik, 2007),
pp. 106, 124, 126, 338.
16 Boris Martov, ‘Declaration of the Association of Revolutionary Cinematography’,
 NOTES 193

document 35 in The Film Factory, p. 103.

17 Youngblood, Soviet Cinema, pp. 119–22.
18 RGALI, ‘Protokol No. 3’, in The Association of Workers, microfilm reel 8, f. 2494, op.
1, d. 200, ll. 20–31.
19 RGALI, ‘Stenogramma obshchego sobraniia chlenov ARRK po obsuzhdeniiu
doklada K. Iukova o zadachakh organizatsii ARRK’, in The Association of Workers,
microfilm reel 9, f. 2494, op. 1, delo. 233, ll. 1–14.
20 Rasstrel'nye spiski, ed. by V. Tikhanova, vypusk 2, Vagankovskoe kladbishche, 1926–
1936 (Moscow: Memorial, 1995), pp. 46, 159, 258.
21 RGALI, ‘Stenogramma obshchego sobraniia chlenov ARRK o vyvodakh komissii
po chistke’, in The Association of Workers, microfilm reel 13, f. 2494, op. 1, d. 352, ll.
1–44. Youngblood, Soviet Cinema, 192.
22 RGALI, f. 2496, op. 2, d. 15, l. 9. RGALI, ‘Stenogramma obshchego sobraniia’,
microfilm reel 13, f. 2494, op. 1, d. 352, l. 44. Youngblood, Soviet Cinema, p. 199.
23 Troshin, ed., ‘ “A driani podobno ‘Garmon'’”, p. 343.
24 Anon., ‘Ukrepit' rabochuiu kinoobshchestvennost'’, Kino i zhizn' (1930), 1.
25 Deriabin, Letopis' Rossiiskogo kino 1930–1945, p. 131.
26 Rasstrel'nye spiski, vypusk 2, pp. 40, 159, 228, 265, 268, 272. Aleksandr Deriabin,
Letopis' Rossiiskogo kino 1863–1929 (Moscow: Materik, 2004), pp. 656–657.
27 Deriabin, Letopis' Rossiiskogo kino 1930–1945, p. 165.
28 Nikolai Lebedev, Ocherk istorii kino SSSR, 2nd ed. (Moscow: Iskusstvo, 1965), p. 307.
L.I. Zhukova, ‘Etnicheskii atlas Uzbekistana’ in Biblioteka tsentra ekstremalnoi
zhurnalistiki http://www.library.cjes.ru/online/?a=con&b_id=416&c_id=4478
[accessed 1 August 2008]. Iutkevich, Kino: Entsiklopedicheskii slovar', pp. 200, 234–5, 524.
29 Deriabin, Letopis' Rossiiskogo kino 1930–1945, pp. 11, 13, 230, 246, 248, 295, 299,
303, 328.
30 < http://memorial.kiev.ua/expo/eng/1934_2.html> [accessed 1 August 2008].
31 Deriabin, Letopis' Rossiiskogo kino 1930–1945, pp. 43–44.
32 Koliazin and Goncharov, Vernite mne svobodu, pp. 70–76. Deriabin, Letopis' Rossiiskogo
kino 1930–1945, p. 580.
33 RGALI, f. 2496, op. 2, d. 15, l. 9.
34 RGALI, f. 2496, op. 2, d. 11, l. 7. Hans Rodenberg, ‘V Moskvu na kinorabotu’,
Kinovedcheskie zapiski, 59 (2002), 136–53 (pp. 142–45). Elena Kuz'mina, O tom, chto
pomniu (Moscow: Iskusstvo, 1989), p. 321.
35 L.S. Ereminaia and Arsenii Roginskii, Rasstrel'nye spiski: Moskva 1937–1941, Kniga
pamiati zhertv politicheskikh repressii (Moscow: Zvenia, 2000), p. 376.
36 Iosifov, ‘Sereznyi urok’, Kino, 28 August 1936, p. 1. ‘Dokladnaia zapiska chlena
Komissii sovetskogo kontrolia pri SNK SSSR N. A. Petrunicheva predsedateliu
KSK N. K. Antipovu o plane proizvodstva khudozhestvennykh kartin na 1936 g’.,
document 118 in Kremlevskii kinoteatr, p. 356. Ereminaia and Roginskii, Rasstrel'nye
spiski, p. 371.
37 Anon., ‘Protsess byvshikh rabotnikov Vostokfil'm’, Kino, 28 October 1936, p. 2.
During the 1990s Grigorii Mar'iamov wrote a book on Stalin’s close relationship
with the Soviet film industry entitled: Kremlevskii tsenzor (Moskva: Kinotsentr, 1992).
38 Koliazin and Goncharov, Vernite mne svobodu, pp. 164–165. Ereminaia and Roginskii,
Rasstrel’nye spiski, pp. 62, 153, 213, 284, 365, 412, 439, 455. Mar'iamov, Kremlevskii
tsenzor, p. 9.
194 SOVIET CINEMA

39 Ereminaia and Roginskii, Rasstrel'nye spiski, pp. 61, 62, 179, 232, 363, 381, 386.
Deriabin, Letopis'Rossiiskogo kino 1930–1945, pp. 472, 505, 543, 559, 573.
40 Ereminaia and Roginskii, Rasstrel'nye spiski, pp. 365, 381, Latyshev, Poimenno pp.
157–60, Oksana Golovnia, ‘Iz detstva (Boris i Liubov' Babitskie)’, in Kino: politika i
liudi, pp. 186–92. Deriabin, Letopis' Rossiiskogo kino 1930–1945, pp. 481, 485, 487,
493, 494, 507, 518, 547, 590.
41 ‘Piatiletka po kadram’, ed. by S. Ishevskaia, Kinovedcheskie zapiski, 68 (2004), 200–
209 (p. 209). ‘Etim tovarishcham pridetsia vykhodit' na proizvodstvo’, ed. Iuliia
Zaitsevaia, Kinovedcheskie zapiski, 68, 2004, 144–70, (p. 170). ‘Riadom s
Eizenshteinom’, ed. Anna Gereb, Kinovedcheskie zapiski, 25, 1995, 229–43 (pp. 242).
Aleksander Yakovlev, A Century of Violence in Soviet Russia (New Haven: Yale University
Press, 2000), p. 125. Deriabin, Letopis' Rossiiskogo kino 1930–1945, pp. 542, 580,
590.
42 Rebrov, ‘Za moe’, p. 208.
43 Latyshev, Poimenno, p. 158.
44 Deriabin, Letopis' Rossiiskogo kino 1930–1945, pp. 481, 495, 497.
45 Arkadii Bernshtein, ‘Aleksandr Kurs’, Kinovedcheskie zapiski, 52 (2001), 171–85 (p.
171). Rebrov, ‘Za moe’ , p. 207. Latyshev, Poimenno, p. 157. Koliazin and Goncharov,
Vernite mne svobodu, pp. 46–76. Ereminaia and Roginskii, Rasstrel'nye spiski, p. 157.
Deriabin, Letopis' Rossiiskogo kino 1930–1945, pp. 479, 501, 506, 515–16, 522, 564,
590.
46 Deriabin, Letopis' Rossiiskogo kino 1930–1945, pp. 416–17, 431, 461, 487, 488, 492,
495, 501, 516, 520, 540, 570.
47 Latyshev, Poimenno, pp. 158–159. Youngblood, Soviet Cinema, p. 134. Bernshtein,
‘Aleksandr Kurs’ p. 171. Ereminaia and Roginskii, Rasstrel'nye spiski, p. 157.
48 Akterskaia entsiklopediia, ed. by Lev Parfenov (Moscow: Materik, 2002), p. 143–144.
Latyshev, Poimenno, pp.158–160. Bernshtein, ‘Sochli vragami’, pp. 92–99. Deriabin,
Letopis' Rossiiskogo kino 1930–1945, p. 564.
49 Latyshev, Poimenno, p. 159.
50 Günter Agde, ‘Iskusstvo v emigratsii i fil'm “Bortsy”’, Kinovedcheskie zapiski, 59 (2002)
160–168 (p.164–65). Deriabin, Letopis' Rossiiskogo kino 1930–1945, pp. 415, 476,
539, 590.

Chapter 4
1 Rubailo, Partiinoe rukovodstvo, pp. 147–158. Vance Kepley Jr, ‘The First Perestroika, pp.
45–46.
2 RGALI, f. 2498, op. 1, d. 26, l. 12. RGALI, f. 2496, op. 1, d. 30, ll. 1–3.
3 G. Khol'mskii, ‘K voprosu o templane’, Sovetskoe kino, 6 (1932), 10–13 (p. 10).
4 V. Sutyrin, ‘K soveshchaniiu po templanu’, Sovetskoe kino, 8 (1933), 1.
5 RGALI, f.2498, op.1, d. 28, ll. 3–12. Postanovlenie Politbiuro TsK VKP(b) ‘O
tematicheskom plane proizvodstva polnometrazhnykh khudozhestvennykh
kinokartin na 1939 god’, document 23 in Vlast' i khudozhestvennaia intelligentsiia, pp.
425–426.
6 Rubailo, Partiinoe rukovodstvo, pp. 153–154.
7 Ekaterina Khokhlova, ‘Neosushchestvlennye zamysly’, in Kino: politika i liudi, p. 2.
8 RGALI, f. 2496, op. 1, d. 31, l. 3.
9 RGALI, f. 2496, op. 1, d. 30, ll. 1–9.
 N OTES 195

10 RGALI, f. 2496, op. 1, d. 30, ll. 5, 12.

11 RGALI, f. 2497, op. 1, d. 5, l. 24.
12 V. Popov, ‘K itogam soveshchaniia po templanu 1935 goda’, Sovetskoe kino, 8–9 (1934),
25–30 (p. 28).
13 Efim Borisov, ‘Za proizvodstvennuiu kul'turu i planovost', Kino, 11 July 1936, p. 2.
14 RGALI, f. 2498, op. 1, d. 15, l. 1.
15 M. Kagan, ‘Za plan, za smetu’, Kino, 5 September 1935, p. 2.
16 Efim Borisov, ‘Za proizvodstvennuiu kul'turu’, p. 2.
17 Efim Borisov, ‘Za proizvodstvennuiu kul'turu’, p. 2.
18 Anon, ‘Vypolnenie kinostudiiami plana 3-go kvartala 1936 g’, Kino, 11 October
1936, p. 2.
19 O. Afanaseva, ‘Blagie namereniia’, Kino, 28 June 1936, p. 1.
20 RGALI, f. 2496, op. 1, d. 30, l. 10.
21 Leonid Maksimenkov, ‘Predislovie’, in Kremlevskii kinoteatr, pp. 35–37.

Chapter 5
1 Lebedev, Ocherk istorii, pp.150–52.
2 Youngblood, Soviet Cinema, pp. 39–40
3 Boris Martov, ‘Declaration of the Association of Revolutionary Cinematography’,
document 35 in The Film Factory, p. 103.
4 Richard Taylor, ‘Introduction’, in The Film Factory, pp. 247–49. ‘RAPP Resolution
on Cinema’, document 110 in The Film Factory, pp. 275–80.
5 ‘An ARK Member’, ‘ARRK Must Be Reorganised’, document 112 in The Film
Factory, pp. 286–87.
6 RGALI, ‘Ustav’, in The Association of Workers, microfilm reel 8, f. 2494, op. 1, d. 201,
ll. 2–10.
7 RGALI, ‘V pravlenie ARRK’, in The Association of Workers, microfilm reel 8, f. 2494,
op. 1, d. 200, l. 31. RGALI, ‘Protokol No 9’, in The Association of Workers, microfilm
reel 8, f. 2494, op. 1, d. 200, ll. 27–29.
8 Mikhail Grinberg, ‘Blizhe k massam, blizhe k proizvodstvu’, Kino, 16 September
1934, p. 1. Mikhail Grinberg, ‘Soiuz kinorabotnikov organizovan!’, Kino, 10 October,
1934, p. 2.
9 RGALI, ‘Iz protokola obshchego sobraniia akterskoi sektsii ARRK’, in The Association
of Workers, microfilm reel 8, f. 2494, op. 1, d. 202, ll. 5–6.
10 RGALI, ‘Protokol No. 8 zasedaniia tekhnicheskoi sektsii ARRK’, in The Association
of Workers, microfilm reel 8, f. 2494, op. 1, d. 210, ll. 10–11.
11 RGALI, ‘Stenogramma ARRK po obsuzhdeniu doklada G.A. Arustanova o
finansovom polozhenii organizatsii i perevyborakh pravleniia’, in The Association of
Workers, microfilm reel 9, f. 2494, op. 1, d. 223, ll. 1–6.
12 Vsevolod Pudovkin, ‘Sovetskaia kinematografiia i zadachi RosARRK’, Sovetskoe
kino, 7 (1933), 1–7.
13 Vsevolod Pudovkin, ‘O likvidatsii RosARRK’, Kino, 17 Jan 1935, p. 4.
14 Youngblood, Soviet Cinema, pp. 48–49.
15 Grigorii Boltianskii, ‘Cinema and the Soviet Public’, document 50, translated in
The Film Factory, pp. 134–35.
16 M. Nikanorov, ‘ODSK v rabochem klube’, Kino i zhizn', 4 (1930), pp. 4–5.
17 L.Z., ‘Golos rabochego zritelia’, Sovetskii ekran, 20, 21 May 1929, p. 8.
196 SOVIET CINEMA

18 RGALI, ‘Stenogramma sobraniia chlenov ARRK o sviazi s obshchestvennymi

organizatsiiami’, in The Association of Workers, microfilm reel 13, f. 2494, op. 1, d.
356, l. 13.
19 Ia. F., ‘ODSK v Voronezhe’, Sovetskii ekran, 20, 1 October 1929, p. 14.
20 Evgenii Andrikanis, O Presne, o Parizhe, o kino (Moscow: Iskusstvo, 1988), pp. 59–61.
21 RGALI, ‘Protokol no. 5 zasedaniia prezidiuma tsentral'nogo soveta obshchestva za
proletarskoe kino i foto’, in The Association of Workers, microfilm reel 13, f. 2494, op.
1, d. 349, ll. 3–6.
22 Anon., ‘Sovetskaia kinoobshchestvennost'’, Vecherniaia Moskva, 30 October 1929, p. 3
23 Anon., ‘Novyi profsoiuz kinofotorabotnikov’, Kino, 10 September 1934, p. 1. Mikhail
Grinberg, ‘Soiuz kinorabotnikov’, p. 2.
24 Anon., ‘Postanovlenie pervogo plenuma TsK Soiuza kino-fotorabotnikov’, Kino, 16
October 1934, p. 1.
25 Alec Nove, An Economic History of the USSR 2nd ed. (London: Penguin, 1989), pp.
198–99.
26 Mikhail Grinberg, ‘Rabotat' po novomu’, Kino, 10 October 1934, p. 1.
27 Anon., ‘V TsK soiuza’, Kino, 4 April 1935, p. 2.
28 ‘Dokladnaia zapiska zav. Otdelom kul'turno-prosvetitel'noi raboty TsK VKP(b) A.
S. Shcherbakova v Orgbiuro TsK VKP(b) o sostoianii kinoraboty na sele’, document
85 in Kremlevskii kinoteatr, p. 279.
29 ‘Postanovlenie Politbiuro TsK VKP(b) o material'nom pooshchrenii rabotnikov
kinematografii’, document 27 in Vlast' i khudozhestvennaia intelligentsiia, p. 428.
30 ‘Pis'mo konsul'tanta GUK G.V. Zel'dovicha v KPK pri TsK VKP(b) o B.Z.
Shumiatskom’, document 171 in Kremlevskii kinoteatr, pp. 472–73.
31 ‘Postanovlenie Politbiuro TsK VKP(b) o nagrazhdenii rabotnikov sovetskoi
kinematografii’, document 76 in Kremlevskii kinoteatr, pp, 257–61.
32 Sergei Eizenshtein and others, ‘Pomoch' Institutu kinematografii’, Pravda, 6 October
1940, p. 6.
33 Mikhail Romm, Kak v kino (Moscow: Dekom, 2003), pp. 104–12.
34 ‘Pis'mo gruppy sovetskikh kinorezhisserov V.M. Molotovu s predlozheniem ob izmenenii
zakona ob avtorskom prave’, document 189 in Kremlevskii kinoteatr, pp. 516–19.
35 ‘Pis'mo gruppy kinematografistov I.V. Stalinu’, document 44 in Vlast' i khudozhestvennaia
intelligentsiia, pp. 446–48.
36 ‘Postanovlenie Politbiuro TsK VKP(b) o sostave stsenarnogo soveta pri predsedatele
Komiteta po delam kinematografii pri SNK SSSR’, document 20 in Vlast' i
khudozhestvennaia intelligentsiia, p. 424.
37 Deriabin, Letopis' Rossiiskogo kino 1863–1929, p. 616.
38 Mikhail Grinberg, ‘Tsentral'nyi dom kino nachinaet rabotu’, Kino, 28 August 1935,
p. 2.
39 Leonid Trauberg, ‘Kak rabotaet tvorcheskaia sektsiia’, Kino, 28 August 1935, p. 2.
40 Rasporiazhenie B.Z. Shumiatskogo V.A. Usievichu i V.S. Bruku o prekrashchenii
diskussii v Dome kino po voprosam kinematografii, document 126 in Kremlevskii
kinoteatr, p. 370.

Chapter 6
1 Comintern, f. 538, op. 2, d. 52, ll. 76–77.
2 Comintern, f. 538, op. 3, d. 104, l. 205. oborot. Comintern, f. 538, op. 3, d.104, l. 05.
 NOTES 197

3 Comintern, f. 538, op. 3, d. 104, l. 156.

4 Mikhail Arlazorov, Protazanov (Moscow: Iskusstvo, 1973), pp. 207–212.
5 Comintern, f. 538, op. 3, d. 117, l. 17.
6 Comintern, f. 538, op. 3, d. 127, l. 35.
7 Comintern, f. 538, op. 3, d. 166, ll. 81–83.
8 Vladimir Shveister, Dialog s proshlym (Moskva: Iskusstvo, 1973). pp. 87–91.
9 RGALI, ‘Zakliuchenie po stsenariiu, “Volshebnoe zerno”’, in Mosfilm (1938–1945):
Russia’s Propaganda on Film, (Reading: Primary Source Media, 1999) microfilm reel
5, f. 2453, op. 2, d. 19, l. 1.
10 RGALI, ‘Zakliuchenie po stsenariiu, “Volshebnoe zerno”’, in Mosfilm (1938–1945),
microfilm reel 5, f. 2453, op. 2, d. 23, l. 18.
11 RGALI, ‘Zakliuchenie po rezhisserskomu stsenariiu, “Volshebnoe zerno”’, in Mosfilm
(1938–1945), microfilm reel 5, f. 2453, op. 2, d. 19, ll. 6–7.
12 RGALI, ‘Prikaz No. 719’, in Mosfilm (1938–1945), microfilm reel 5, f. 2453, op. 2,
d. 87, l. 49.
13 RGALI, ‘Nachal'niku glavnogo upravleniia po proizvodstvu khudozhestvennykh
fil'mov tov. Kur'ianovu A. U.’, in Mosfilm (1938–1945), microfilm reel 5, f. 2453,
op. 2, d. 23, ll. 12–13. RGALI, ‘Prikaz No. 216’, in Mosfilm (1938–1945), microfilm
reel 5, f. 2453, op. 2, d. 23, l. 9.
14 RGALI, ‘Nachal'niku glavnogo upravleniia po proizvodstvu khudozhestvennykh
fil'mov tov. Polonskomu K. A.,’ in Mosfilm (1938–1945), microfilm reel 5, f. 2453,
op. 2, d. 23, ll. 7–8.
15 RGALI, ‘Prikaz No. 282’, in Mosfilm (1938–1945), microfilm reel 5, f. 2453, op. 2,
d. 23, l. 30.
16 RGALI, ‘Prikaz No. 282’, in Mosfilm (1938–1945), microfilm reel 5, f. 2453, op. 2,
d. 23, l. 30.
17 RGALI, ‘Prikaz No. 277’, in Mosfilm (1938–1945), microfilm reel 2, f. 2453, op. 1,
d. 1, l. 5.
18 RGALI, ‘Zakliuchenie po materialu kartiny, “Volshebnoe zerno”’, in Mosfilm (1938–
1945), microfilm reel 5, f. 2453, op. 2, d. 19, ll. 10–12.
19 RGALI, ‘Predlozheniia k sokrashcheniiu rezhisserskogo stenariia “Volshebnoe
zerno”’, in Mosfilm (1938–1945), microfilm reel 5, f. 2453, op. 2, d. 22, ll. 1–3.
20 RGALI, ‘Protokol soveshchaniia po voprosu o khode s'emok po kartine “Volshebnoe
zerno”’, in Mosfilm (1938–1945), microfilm reel 5, f. 2453, op. 2, d. 20, l. 2.
21 ‘Zapis' besedy v GUK o rabote nad stsenariem’, document 158 in Kremlevskii kinoteatr,
p. 437.
22 ‘Dokladnaia zapiska narodnogo komissara Gosudarstvennoi bezopasnosti SSSR
V.N. Merkulova A.A. Zhdanovu o nedostatkakh v rabote khudozhestvennoi
kinematografii v 1945 g.’, document 256 in Kremlevskii kinoteatr, pp. 718–722.
23 Comintern, f. 538, op. 3, d. 166, ll. 23–28.
24 Comintern, f. 538, op. 3, d. 104, l. 96 oborot.
25 Vladmir Mikhailov, ‘Stalinskaia model' upravleniia kinematografom’, in Kino:
politika i liudi, pp. 22–23.
26 RGALI, ‘Predsedateliu Komiteta po delam Kinematografii pri SNK SSSR tov.
Bol'shakovu I. G.’, in Mosfilm (1938–1945), microfilm reel 6, f. 2453, op. 2, d. 87, l. 12.
27 Lev Anninskii, ‘Iz zhizni prodiusera’, Kinovedcheskie zapiski, 79 (2006) 41–120
(p. 52–91).
198 SOVIET CINEMA

28 RGALI, ‘Prikaz No. 302’, in Mosfilm (1938–1945), microfilm reel 2, f. 2453, op. 1,
d. 1, ll. 26–30. Mosfil'm, ‘Prikaz No. 37’, in Mosfilm (1938–1945), microfilm reel 2,
f. 2453, op. 1, d. 3, l. 15.
29 Anninskii, ‘Iz zhizni prodiusera’, p. 58–91.
30 RGALI, ‘Prikaz No. 17’, in Mosfilm (1938–1945), microfilm reel 5, f. 2453, op. 1,
d. 3, ll. 15–16.
31 Comintern, f. 538, op. 3, d. 104. ll. 78–79.
32 RGALI, ‘Postanovlenie’, in Mosfilm (1938–1945), microfilm reel 9, f. 2453, op. 2,
d. 505, ll. 4–5.
33 RGALI, ‘Kratkaia stenogramma po prosmotru otsniatykh materialov kinokartiny
“Svinarkha i pastukh” rezhissera I. Pyr'eva’, in Mosfilm (1938–1945), microfilm
reel 7, f. 2453, op. 2, d. 142, ll. 1–20.
34 RGALI, ‘Stenogramma zasedaniia khudozhestvennogo soveta po obsuzhdeniiu
rezhisserskogo stsenariia K. K. Iudina “Serdtsa chetyrekh” (avtory literaturnogo
stsenariia Granberg, A. i M. Faiko)’, in Mosfilm (1938–1945), microfilm reel 7, f.
2453, op. 2, d. 150, ll. 1–15. RGALI, ‘Protokoly zasedanii khudozhestvennogo
soveta po rasmotreniiu otsniatykh materialov k fil'mu “Serdtsa chetyrekh” rezhissera
K. K. Iudina’, in Mosfilm (1938–1945), microfilm reel 7, f. 2453, op. 2, d. 151, ll.
1–8.
35 ‘Postanovlenie Sekretariata TsK VKP(b) o zapreshchenii k vypusku na ekran
kinofil'ma “Serdtsa chetyrekh”’, document 66 in Vlast' i khudozhestvennaia intelligentsiia,
p. 473.
36 RGALI, ‘Stenogrammy zasedanii khudozhestvennogo soveta kinostudii “Mosfil'm”
po obsuzhdeniiu podgotovki stsenariev i operatorskikh kadrov’, in Mosfilm (1938–
1945), microfilm reel 9, f. 2453, op. 2, d. 506, ll. 1–39.
37 Iumasheva and Lepikhov, ‘Fenomen’, p. 133.
38 See endnote number five, in Kremlevskii kinoteatr, 1928–1953, p. 610.
39 ‘Pis'mo M.I. Romma I.V. Stalinu o neterpimom otnoshenii rukovodstva Komiteta
po delam kinematografii pri SNK SSSR k izvestnym rezhisseram kino’, document
229 in Kremlevskii kinoteatr, 1928–1953, pp. 647–650.

Chapter 7
1 Iutkevich, Kino: Entsiklopedicheskii slovar', p. 193.
2 Kepley, ‘Building’, pp. 5–16.
3 For examples of this see K istorii VGIKa, ed. by Marat Vlasov (Moscow: VGIK,
2000), pp. 15–20, 202–204.
4 Michael David-Fox, ‘The Assault on the Universities and the Dynamics of Stalin’s
“Great Break”’ in Michael David-Fox and György Péteri (eds.), Academia in Upheaval
(London: Bergin and Garvey, 2000), pp. 73–105. John Connelly, Captive University,
(Chapel Hill and London: University of North Carolina Press, 2000), pp. 22–31.
5 Postanovlenie TsK VKP(b), ‘O rukovodiashchikh kadrakh rabotnikov kinematografii’,
document 44 in Sovetskoe kino, p. 82.
6 Anon., ‘Itogi priema’, in K istorii VGIKa, pp. 138–39.
7 Kepley, ‘Building’, p. 16. ‘Piatiletka’, Ishevskaia, p. 202.
8 E. Vilenskii, ‘Goremychnyi VUZ’, K istorii VGIKa, pp. 173–75.
9 Herbert Marshall, Masters of the Soviet Cinema, (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul,
1983), 193–194. ‘Dokladnaia zapiska sekretaria TsK VLKSM D.D. Luk'ianova
 NOTES 199

sekretariu TsK VKP(b) N. I. Ezhovu o podgotovke kadrov dlia kinopromyshlennosti’,

document 108 in Kremlevskii kinoteatr, p. 331.
10 ‘Dokladnaia zapiska sekretaria TsK VLKSM D.D. Luk'ianova’, p. 331. ‘Piatiletka’,
Ishevskaia, pp. 202–204.
11 Nikolai Lebedev, ‘Nashi zadachi’, Kino, 16 November 1934, p. 1.
12 Nikolai Dostal’, ‘Pervyi v mire’, K istorii VGIKa, p. 174. Anon., ‘Skorostnoe stroitel'stvo
VGIK’, Kino, 5 March 1939, p. 4.
13 Moinov, ‘Razrytyi muraveinik GIKa’, in K istorii VGIKa, pp. 154–55.
14 Lebedev, ‘Nashi zadachi’, p. 1. L. Levin, ‘Popolnit' oborudovanie tekhbazy’, Kino,
16 November 1934, p. 1.
15 Nikolai Lebedev, ‘Na pod'eme’, Kino, 4 July 1935, p. 2. Eizenshtein and others.
‘Pomoch' Institutu’, p. 6.
16 ‘Piatiletka’, Ishevskaia, p. 205.
17 Zhivye golosa kino, ed. by Lev Parfenov (Moscow: Belyi bereg, 1999), p. 86. ‘Piatiletka’,
Ishevskaia, p. 203.
18 RGALI, ‘Protokol No. 8, Zasedaniia tekhnicheskoi sektsii ARRK’, in The Association
of Workers, microfilm reel 9, f. 2494, op. 1, d. 210, l. 10.
19 RGALI, ‘Spisok samostoiatel'nykh postanovshchikov i zagruska ikh v 1941 g.’, in
Mosfil'm (1938–1945), microfilm reel 9, f. 2453, op. 2, d. 509, l. 3.
20 ‘Etim tovarishcham’, Zaitsevaia , p.169.
21 RGALI, ‘Stenogrammy zasedanii khudozhestvennogo soveta kinostudii ‘Mosfil'm’
po obsuzhdeniiu podgotovki stsenariev i operatorskikh kadrov’, in Mosfilm (1938–
1945), microfilm reel 9, f. 2453, op. 2, d. 506, ll. 1–39.
22 Semen Orelovich, ‘Blizhaishie zadachi kievskoi studii’, Kino, 11 September 1936, p. 2.
23 A. Azarin, ‘Prenebrezhenie k tvorcheskim kadram’, Kino, 17 September 1936, p. 3.
See also the brief response to this article in Kino, 4 October 1936, p. 4.
24 RGALI, ‘Prikaz No. 302’, in Mosfilm (1938–1945), microfilm reel 2, f. 2453, op. 1,
d. 1, ll. 26–30. RGALI, ‘Prikaz No. 37’, in Mosfilm (1938–1945), microfilm reel 2,
f. 2453, op. 1, d. 3, l. 15.
25 See Sheila Fitzpatrick, Education and Social Mobility in the Soviet Union, 1921–1934,
(Cambridge: CUP, 1979).
26 Kepley, ‘Building’, pp.15–17. Nikolai Anoshchenko, ‘Kak my rosli’, Kino, 10 February
1935, p. 2.
27 The literature on Eizenshtein’s role in cinema education is fairly substantial. For
an excellent starting point see Vance Kepley Jr, ‘Eisenstein as Pedagogue’, Quarterly
Review of Film and Video, 14 (1993), pp. 1–16. For more detail on Eizenshtein’s
lectures see the English language book: Vladimir Nizhny, Lessons with Eisenstein,
translated and edited by Ivor Montagu and Jay Leyda, (New York: Da Capo Press,
1979). Further lectures can be found in volume four of Sergei Eizenshtein, Izbrannye
proizvdeniia v shesti tomakh, ed. by S. Iutkevich and others, (Moscow: Iskusstvo, 1964–
1969). For the content of the director’s course at VGIK see Nizhny, Lessons, 143–
64.
28 Nizhny, Lessons, pp. 19–62. Kepley, ‘Eisenstein’, pp. 11–14.
29 S. Tal'skii, ‘Studenty na proizvodstve’, Kino, 4 July 1935, p. 3. A. Kruk, ‘Na
prakticheskuiu uchebu’, Kino, 4 July 1935, p. 3.
30 N. V., ‘Shkola masterstva’, Kino, 4 July 1935, p. 2.
31 Richard Taylor, ‘Introduction’, in S.M. Eisenstein Selected Works, ed. by Richard Taylor,
200 SOVIET CINEMA

4 Vols, (London: BFI Publishing 1988–1995), 1, pp. 1–24. Indeed, Taylor argues
here that Eizenshtein was consistently concerned with the ideological purpose of
cinema throughout his career.
32 ‘Riadom s Eizenshteinom’, Gereb, pp. 234–38.
33 Koliazin and Goncharov, Vernite mne svobodu, pp. 70–76.
34 Vladimir Nil'sen, The Cinema as a Graphic Art, (New York: Hill and Wang, 1959), pp.
125, 215–27.
35 Nil'sen, The Cinema, pp. 153–73.
36 Sergei Eisenstein, ‘GTK-GIK-VGIK Past-Present-Future’, in Film Essays with a
Lecture by Sergei Eisenstein, ed. by Jay Leyda (London: Dobson , 1968), p. 72.
37 Vladimir Nil'sen, ‘Programma kursa operatorskogo iskusstva’, Iskusstvo kino, 10
(1936), pp. 59–60. In this article Nil'sen provides a programmatic summary of his
course which is also a summary of his textbook. For a student’s reaction and
description of the course see N. Lisitsyn, ‘Studenty-operatory’, Kino, 10 June 1935,
p. 3.
38 Marshall, Soviet Cinema, pp. 16, 25.

Chapter 8
1 Beth Holmgren, ‘The Blue Angel and Blackface: Redeeming Entertainment in
Aleksandrov’s Circus’, Russian Review, 66 (2007), 5–22.
2 Rimgaila Salys, ‘Art Deco Aesthetics in Grigorii Aleksandrov’s The Circus’, Russian
Review, 66 (2007), 23–35.
3 Aleksandrov, Epokha i kino, pp. 196–97. Although The Circus has received more
academic attention than other films of the 1930s, the music is rarely discussed.
One notable exception is Richard Taylor’s article ‘Toward a Topography of Utopia
in the Stalinist Musical’ in The Landscape of Stalinism: the Art and Ideology of Soviet
Space, ed. by Evgenii Dobrenko and Eric Naiman (Washington: University of
Washington Press, 2003), pp. 201–218.
4 Aleksandrov, Epokha i kino, pp. 192, 200.
5 D. Zaslavskii, ‘Khoroshii smekh’, Viktor Shklovskii, ‘Volga-Volga’, and Bratia Tur,
‘Volga-Volga’, Izvestiia, all reprinted in Istoriia sovetskogo kinoiskusstva zvukovogo perioda
po vyskazyvaniiam masterov kino i otzyvam kritikov chast' 1 (1930–1941), ed. by Ippolit V.
Sokolov (Moscow: Goskinoizdat, 1946), pp. 171–176.
6 Vladimir Shneiderov, Moi kinoputeshestviia (Moscow: Biuro propagandy sovetskogo
kinoiskusstva, 1973), pp. 62–63.
7 Kenez, Cinema and Soviet Society, pp. 108–09. Maya Turovskaia, ‘Fil'my i liudi’,
Kinovedcheskie zapiski, 57 (2002), 251–259 (p. 254).
8 Ivan Pyr'ev, ‘Pomnit o nashem zritele’, Iskusstvo kino, 5 (1936), 7–11 (p. 7).
9 O. Litovskii, ‘Fil'm o bditel'nosti’, Kino, 30 March 1936, p. 3.
10 Aleksandr Macheret, ‘Fil'm o bditel'nosti’, Iskusstvo kino, 5 (1936), 3–6 (pp. 3–4).
11 Fridrikh Ermler, Dokumenty, stat'i, vospominaniia (Leningrad: Iskusstvo, 1974), pp. 127–28.
12 Anon., ‘Utverzhdenie politicheskogo zhanra. Beseda s avtorami stsenariia “Velikii
grazhdanin” M. Bleimanom i M. Bol'shintsovym’, in Kino totalitarnoi epokhi 1933–
1945, ed. by Artem Demenok and Ekaterina Khokhlova (Moscow: Mezhdunarodnyi
kinofestival' v Moskve, 1989), pp. 43–44.
13 One recent analysis of this film focuses on the wordy aspect of the movie. See Julie
A. Cassiday, ‘Kirov and Death in “The Great Citizen”: The Fatal Consequences
 N OTES 201

of Linguistic Mediation’, Slavic Review, 64 (2005), pp. 799–822.

14 N. Gornitskaia and l. Shvarts (eds), ‘U nas za veshch'iu stoiali v kakoi-to stepeni
“Besy” Dostoevskogo’, Kinovedcheskie zapiski, 63 (2003) 148–168 (p. 167).
15 ‘Zapiska I.V. Stalina B.Z. Shumiatskomu o stsenarii kinofil'ma “Velikii grazhdanin”’,
document 135 in Kremlevskii kinoteatr, pp. 383–384.
16 M. Rutes, ‘Partiinyi fil'm’, in Kino totalitarnoi epokhi, p. 44. Al. Abramov, ‘Velikii
grazhdanin’, Vecherniaia Moskva, 27 February 1938, p. 3.
17 S. Tsimbal, “Partiinyi fil'm”, Iskusstvo kino, 4–5 (1938), p. 27. A. Milovidov, “Velikii
Grazhdanin”, Pravda, 17 February 1938.
18 Leo Vaks, ‘Fil'm o gorode iunosti’, Vecherniaia Moskva, 4 May 1938, p. 3.
19 Maia Turovskaia, ‘The Tastes of Soviet Moviegoers in the 1930s’, in Late Soviet
Culture: From Perestroika to Novostroika, ed. by Thomas Lahusen, with Gene Kuperman
(Durham: Duke University Press, 1993), pp. 95–108. Adrian Shaposhnikov,
‘“Bol'shoi Val's”… zamechatel'nyi!!! smotrel 5 raz’, Kinovedcheskie zapiski, 45 (2000)
201–217 (p. 211).
20 Maia Turovskaia, ‘Totalitarnyi model' kinomifov 30-kh godov’, in Kino: politika i
liudi 30-e gody, p. 60. Turovskaia regards The Great Citizen as one such film although
her main contention is to argue for the existence of a totalitarian model of cinema.
The idea of The Great Citizen acting as a justification for the purges has been
supported by documentary accounts of the film; see Dokumentalnaia kamera, ‘The
Great Citizen’, RTR Planeta, February, 2004.
21 Boris Vetrov, ‘Stiazhateli’, Kino, 16 February 1935, p. 2.
22 V. Demin, ‘Aleksandr Medvedkin’, in 20 rezhisserskikh biografii, ed. by I. N.
Vladimirtseva (Moscow: Iskusstvo, 1971), p. 255.
23 Emma Widdis, Alexander Medvedkin (London: I.B.Tauris, 2005).
24 Evgenii Gabrilovich, O tom, chto proshlo (Moscow: Iskusstvo, 1967), p. 29.
25 L. Slavin, ‘Posledniaia noch'’, Vecherniaia Moskva, 21 January 1938, p. 3.
26 Mark Zak, Iulii Raizman, (Moscow: Iskusstvo, 1962), pp. 101–04.
27 Aleksandrov, Epokha i kino, pp. 5–157. Rostislav Iurenev, ‘Ivan Aleksandrovich Pyr'ev,
Biograficheskii ocherk’, in Ivan Pyr'ev v zhizni i na ekrane, ed. by Grigorii Mar'iamov
(Moscow: Kinotsentr, 1994), pp 5–15.
28 Emma Widdis, Alexander Medvedkin, pp. 7–21, 35–57.
29 Denise Youngblood, Movies for the Masses; Popular Cinema and Soviet Society in the 1920s
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), pp. 139–142.
 BIBLIOGRAPHY
Direct and Published Archival Sources
The main direct archival sources used in this thesis were drawn from RGALI (Russian
State Archive for Literature and the Arts).
Fond 2496: Vserossiiskoe fotokinematograficheskoe aktsionernoe obshchestvo ‘Sovkino’.
F. 2497: Vsesoiuznoe gosudarstvennoe kinofotoob''edinenie ‘Soiuzkino’.
F. 2498: Kinofabriki Vserossiiskogo fotokinematograficheskogo aktsionernogo obshchestvo
‘Sovkino’ i Vsesoiuznogo gosudarstvennogo kinofotoob''edineniia ‘Soiuzkino’.
This thesis also employed microfilmed collections of the ‘ARRK’ and ‘Mosfil'm’ fonds
also drawn from RGALI:
The Association of Workers of Revolutionary Cinematography (Woodbridge, CT: Research
Publications, 1999).
Mosfilm (1938–1945): Russia’s Propaganda on Film, (Reading: Primary Source Media, 1999).
For the chapter on the studios I investigated the Comintern Archive which is based at the
Russian State Archive of Social-Political History (RGASPI) and is available electronically.
An important publication emerged in 2005, providing a wealth of archival documents
largely drawn from the RGASPI and the State Archive of the Russian Federation
(GARF). It includes the fonds of the Communist Party’s Central Committee, the
Politbiuro, Orgbiuro and Agitprop:
Anderson, Kirill and others, eds, Kremlevskii kinoteatr, 1928–1953, (Moscow: Rosspen, 2005).
The thesis used the microfilmed Andrei Zhdanov fond for information on censorship:
Jana Howlett, ed., Leaders of the Russian Revolution: Pt 5. Andrei Zhdanov, (Cambridge:
Chadwyck-Healey in Association with the State Archival Service of the Russian
Federation, 1994).
Further significant items concerning cinema can be found in the following two collections
of documents:
Andrei Artizov and Oleg Naumov, eds, Vlast' i khudozhestvennaia intelligentsia (Moscow:
Demokratiia, 1999).
Oleg Khlevniuk, Stalinskoe Politbiuro v 30-e gody (Moscow: Airo-XX, 1995).
Documents from the VGIK archive, as well as newspaper articles are gathered in:
K istorii VGIKa, ed. by Marat Vlasov, (Moscow: VGIK, 2000).
Much information concerning the fate of cinema industry employees during the purges
was found in the following publications which are drawn from central and local former
secret police archives:
204 SOVIET CINEMA

Ereminaia, L.S., and Arsenii Roginskii, Rasstrel'nye spiski: Moskva 1937–1941, Kniga pamiati
zhertv politicheskikh repressii (Moscow: Zvenia, 2000).
Tikhanova, V., ed., Rasstrel'nye spiski, vypusk 2, Vagankovskoe kladbishche, 1926–1936
(Moscow: Memorial, 1995).

Published Collections of other Documents

Akifeva, M. and A. Sleshina, eds, Vo glave kul'turnogo stroitel'stva, Kniga 1 (Moscow,
Moskovskii rabochii, 1983).
Demenok, Artem and Ekaterina Khokhlova, eds, Kino totalitarnoi epokhi 1933–1945,
(Moscow: Mezhdunarodnyi kinofestival' v Moskve, 1989).
Koliazin, Vladimir and Vladimir Goncharov, eds, Vernite mne svobodu: deiateli literatury i
iskusstva Rossii i Germanii – zhertvy stalinskogo terrora (Moscow: Medium, 1997).
Sevostianov, G. and E. Tiurina, eds, Rossiia i SShA: ekonomicheskie otnosheniia 1933–1941:
Sbornik dokumentov, (Moscow: Nauka, 2001).
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Sobranie postanovlenii i rasporiazenii SSSR
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kino i otzyvam kritikov chast' 1 (1930–1941) (Moscow: Goskinoizdat, 1946), pp. 171–176.
Sovetskie khudozhestvennye fil'my: Annotirovannyi katalog (Moscow: Iskusstvo, 1961).
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Volkova, Nataliia, Sergei Drobashenko and Rostislav Iurenev, Sovetskoe kino (1917–1978):
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1979).

Books, Journal and Newspaper Articles

Abramov, Al., ‘Velikii grazhdanin’, Vecherniaia Moskva, 27 February 1938, p. 3.
Afanas'eva, O., ‘Blagie namereniia’, Kino, 28 June 1936, p. 1.
Afanas'eva, O., ‘Neobosnovannyi optimism’, Kino, 11 September 1936, p. 1.
Agde, Günter, ‘Iskusstvo v emigratsii i fil'm “Bortsy”’, Kinovedcheskie zapiski, 59 (2002)
160–168 (p.164–65).
Aleksandrov, Grigorii, Epokha i kino (Moscow: Izdatel'stvo politicheskoi Literatury, 1976).
Alicoate, Jack, ed., The 1936 Film Daily Year Book of Motion Pictures, (New York: The Film
Daily, 1936), pp. 1130–31.
Alicoate, Jack, ed., The 1937 Film Daily Year Book of Motion Pictures (New York: The Film
Daily, 1937).
Alicoate, Jack, ed., The 1941 Film Daily Year Book of Motion Pictures (New York: The Film
Daily, 1941).
Andrikanis, Evgenii, O Presne, o Parizhe, o kino (Moscow: Iskusstvo, 1988), pp. 59–61.
Anninskii, Lev, ‘Iz zhizni prodiusera’, Kinovedcheskie zapiski, 79 (2006) 41–120.
Anon., ‘Sovetskaia kinoobshchestvennost'’, Vecherniaia Moskva, 30 October 1929, p. 3.
Anon., ‘Ukrepit' rabochuiu kinoobshchestvennost'’, Kino i zhizn', (1930), 1.
Anon., ‘Kinoprokat na sluzhbu kul'turnoi revoliutsii’, Kino i zhizn', 12 (1930), 3.
Anon., ‘Novyi profsoiuz kinofotorabotnikov’, Kino, 10 September 1934, p. 1.
Anon., ‘V GUKF’, Kino, 16 September 1934, p. 4.
Anon., Postanovlenie pervogo plenuma TsK Soiuza kino-fotorabotnikov, Kino, 16
 BIBLIOGRAPHY 205

October 1934, p. 1.
Anon., ‘Kino v zelenom teatre’, Vecherniaia Moskva, 20 February 1935, p. 3.
Anon., ‘V TsK soiuza’, Kino, 4 April 1935, p. 2.
Anon., ‘Sovetskie kinematografisty vyekhali za granitsu’, Kino, 22 May 1935, p. 2.
Anon.,‘V GUK’, Kino, 17 August 1936, p. 4.
Anon., ‘V GUK’, Kino, 28 August 1936, p. 4.
Anon., ‘Vypolnenie kinostudiiami plana 3-go kvartala 1936 g’, Kino, 11 October 1936, p. 2.
Anon., ‘Protsess byvshikh rabotnikov Vostokfil'm’, Kino, 28 October 1936, p. 2.
Anon., ‘S prokatom plokho’, Kino, 22 December 1936, p. 4.
Anon., ‘Kino na severe’, Kino, 17 February 1939, p. 4.
Anon., ‘Skorostnoe stroitel'stvo VGIK’, Kino, 5 March 1939, p. 4.
Anon., ‘Na sobranii aktiva’, Kino, 18 August 1939, pp. 3–4.
Anon., ‘V komitete po delam kinematografii’, Kino, 3 November 1939, p. 4.
Anon., ‘570 kopii’, Kino, 1 December 1939, p. 4.
Anon., ‘Sovetskoe kino v tsifrakh’, Iskusstvo kino, 1–2 (1940), 82–83.
Anon., Vneshniaia torgovlia SSSR za 1918–1940: statisticheskii obzor (Moscow:
Vneshtorgizdat, 1960).
Anoshchenko, Nikolai, Obshchii kurs kinematografii (Moscow: Teakinopechat', 1930).
Anoshchenko, Nikolai, ‘Tekhnicheskaia pomoshch' zagranitsy nashemu kino’, Kino i
zhizn', 9 (1930), 14.
Anoshchenko, Nikolai, ‘Kak my rosli’, Kino, 10 February 1935, p. 2.
Arakelov, A., ‘Nepravil'noe planirovanie’, Kino, 5 December 1939, p. 4.
Arlazorov, Mikhail, Protazanov (Moscow: Iskusstvo, 1973).
Azarin, A., ‘Prenebrezhenie k tvorcheskim kadram’, Kino, 17 September 1936, p. 3.
Babitskii, Paul and John Rimberg, The Soviet Film Industry (New York: Praeger, 1955).
Bagrin, B., ‘Bol'nye voprosy kinofikatsii derevni’, Kino, 16 Feb 1936, p. 4.
Balandin, V., ‘Upravlenie kinoset'iu nado perestroit'’, Kino, 17 May 1939, p. 3.
Bernshtein, Arkadii, ‘Sochli vragami naroda’, Iskusstvo kino, 3 (1993), p. 92–99.
Bernshtein, Arkadii, ‘Aleksandr Kurs’, Kinovedcheskie zapiski, 52 (2001), 171–85 (p. 171).
Bernshtein, Arkadii, ‘Gollivud bez kheppi-enda’, Kinovedcheskie zapiski, 60 (2002), 213–
59 (p. 238).
Bluvshtein, V., ‘V poiskakh za utrachennym vremenem’, Proletarskoe kino, 21–22 (1932), 62.
Bol'shakov, Ivan, ‘O prieme del novym rukovodstvom komiteta i o zadachakh vtorovo
polugodiia’, Kino, 18 August, 1939, p. 3.
Borisov, Efim, ‘Za proizvodstvennuiu kul'turu i planovost'’, Kino, 11 July 1936, p. 2.
Cassiday, Julie A., ‘Kirov and Death in “The Great Citizen”: The Fatal Consequences
of Linguistic Mediation’, Slavic Review, 64 (2005), pp. 799–822.
Deriabin, Aleksandr, Letopis' Rossiiskogo kino 1863–1929 (Moscow: Materik, 2004).
Deriabin, Aleksandr, Letopis' Rossiiskogo kino 1930–1945 (Moscow: Materik, 2007).
Diakonov, I., ‘Ogromnye zadachi’, Kino, 11 February, 1939, p. 2.
Dobrenko, Evgeny, Stalinist Cinema and the Production of History: Museum of the Revolution
(Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2008).
Dukel'skii, Semen, ‘Novaia sistema oplaty truda tvorcheskikh rabotnikov kinematografii’,
Kino, 5 January 1939, p. 3.
Dukel'skii, Semen, ‘Za vysokie tempy, kachestvo i proizvoditel'nost' truda’, Kino, 5
January, 1939, p. 3.
Dukel'skii, Semen, ‘Prikaz po komitetu po delam kinematografii pri SNK SSSR No.
206 SOVIET CINEMA

56’, Kino, 29 January 1939, p. 2.

Dukel'skii, Semen, ‘Prikaz po komitetu po delam kinematografii pri SNK SSSR No.
57’, Kino, 29 January 1939, p. 2.
Eisenstein, Sergei and others, ‘Pomoch' Institutu kinematografii’, Pravda, 6 October
1940, p. 6.
Eisenstein, Sergei, ‘GTK-GIK-VGIK Past-Present-Future’, in Film Essays with a Lecture
by Sergei Eisenstein, ed. by Jay Leyda (London: Dobson , 1968).
Ermler, Fridrikh, Dokumenty, stat'i, vospominaniia (Leningrad: Iskusstvo, 1974).
F. Ia., ‘ODSK v Voronezhe’, Sovetskii ekran, 20, 1 October 1929, p. 14.
Gabrilovich, Evgenii, O tom, chto proshlo (Moscow: Iskusstvo, 1967).
G. A. M., ‘Obuchit' kinomekhanika’, Kino, 11 July 1935, p. 2.
Gereb, Anna, ed., ‘Riadom s Eizenshteinom’, Kinovedcheskie zapiski, 25, (1995), 229–43
(pp. 234–38).
Gladkov, K. ‘Etapy razvitiia zvukovogo kino v SSSR’, Proletarskoe kino, 5–6 (1931), 56.
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Dostoevskogo’, Kinovedcheskie zapiski, 63 (2003) 148–168 (p.167).
Grinberg, Mikhail, ‘Blizhe k massam, blizhe k proizvodstvu’, Kino, 16 September
1934, p. 1.
Grinberg, Mikhail, ‘Rabotat' po novomu’, Kino, 10 October 1934, p. 1.
Grinberg, Mikhail, ‘Soiuz kinorabotnikov organizovan!’, Kino, 10 October, 1934, p. 2.
Grinberg, Mikhail, ‘Tsentral'nyi dom kino nachinaet rabotu’, Kino, 28 August 1935, p. 2.
Haynes, John, New Soviet Man, (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2003).
Holmgren Beth, ‘The Blue Angel and Blackface: Redeeming Entertainment in
Aleksandrov’s Circus’, Russian Review, 66 (2007), 5–22.
Ishevskaia, S., ed.,‘Piatiletka po kadram’, Kinovedcheskie zapiski, 68, (2004), 200–209 (p. 202).
Iumasheva, Olga and Iuri Lepikhov, ‘Fenomen totalitarnogo liberalisma’, Kinovedcheskie
zapiski, 20 (1993/94), 125–44 (p. 131).
Iutkevich, Sergei and others, eds, Sergei Eizenshtein, Izbrannye proizvdeniia v shesti tomakh
(Moscow: Iskusstvo, 1964–1969).
Iutkevich, Sergei, ed., Kino: Entsiklopedicheskii slovar' (Moscow: Sovetskaia entsiklopediia,
1987).
Ivanov, N. ‘Kinoobsluzhivanie derevni v zagone’, Kino, 22 June 1936, p. 3.
Kagan, M., ‘Za plan, za smetu’, Kino, 5 September 1935, p. 2.
Kalistratov, Iu. ‘Uluchshit' kinoobsluzhivanie sela’, Kino, 23 November 1939, p. 2.
Kaliuzhnyi, A., ‘Sovetskaia kinoplenka i ee nedostatki’, Proletarskoe kino, 17–18 (1932), 46–50.
Kashin, Bella, ‘The Cinema in Russia’, New York Times, October 15, 1933.
Kenez, Peter, Cinema and Soviet Society from the Revolution to the Death of Stalin (London:
I.B.Tauris, 2001).
Kepley Jr, Vance, ‘Building a National Cinema: Soviet Film Education, 1918–1934’,
Wide Angle, 9.3, (1987), pp. 5–16.
Kepley Jr, Vance, ‘Eisenstein as Pedagogue’, Quarterly Review of Film and Video, 14, (1993),
pp. 1–16.
Kepley Jr, Vance, ‘The First Perestroika: Soviet Cinema under the First Five-Year Plan’,
Cinema Journal 35, 4, (1996), pp. 31–53.
Kerzhentsev, Platon, ‘Za bol'shoe iskusstvo sotsializma’, Kino, 18 February 1936, p. 1.
Kerzhentsev, Platon, ‘Postanovlenie no. 39 Vsesoiuznogo Komiteta po Delam Iskusstv
 BIBLIOGRAPHY 207

pri SNK SSSR’, Kino, 4 August 1936, p. 1.

Kerzhentsev, Platon, ‘Prikaz No. 360’, Kino, 22 August 1936, p. 1.
Khol'mskii, G., ‘K voprosu o templane’, Sovetskoe Kino, 6 (1932), 10–13 (p. 10).
Koliazin, Vladimir and Vladimir Goncharov, eds, Vernite mne svobodu: deiateli literatury i
iskusstva Rossii i Germanii – zhertvy stalinskogo terrora (Moscow: Medium, 1997).
Kotiev, B., ‘Problema kopii’, Kino, 5 May 1935, p. 1.
Kotiev, B. ‘Zvukofikatsiia sela’, Kino, 6 Nov 1935, p. 5.
Kruk, A. ‘Na prakticheskuiu uchebu’, Kino, 4 July 1935, p. 3.
Kuleshov, Lev, ‘Pis'mo predsedateliu komiteta po delam kinematografii tov.
Dukel'skomu’, Kinovedcheskie zapiski, 41 (2002), 7–22 (pp. 20–22).
Kuz'mina, Elena, O tom, chto pomniu (Moscow: Iskusstvo, 1989).
Lahusen, Thomas and Kuperman, Gene, eds, Late Soviet Culture: From Perestroika to
Novostroika, (Durham: Duke University Press, 1993).
Laurent, Natacha, L’Oeil du Kremlin: cinéma et censure en URSS sous Staline (Toulouse: Privat,
2000).
Lebedev, Nikolai, ‘Kino-proizvodstvo – pod kontrol' rabochikh shefov’, Vecherniaia Moskva,
15 December 1930, p. 3.
Lebedev, Nikolai, ‘Nashi zadachi’, Kino, 16 November 1934, p. 1.
Lebedev, Nikolai, ‘Na pod'eme’, Kino, 4 July 1935, p. 2.
Lebedev, Nikolai, Ocherk istorii kino SSSR, 2nd ed. (Moscow: Iskusstvo, 1965).
Lemberg, Efraim, Kinopromyshlennost' SSSR ekonomika sovetskoi kinematografii (Moscow:
Teakinopechat', 1930).
Levin, L. ‘Popolnit' oborudovanie tekhbazy’, Kino, 16 November 1934, p. 1.
Leyda, Jay, Kino: a History of the Russian and Soviet Film (London: George Allen and Unwin,
1960).
Liadov, N., ‘Sledia za reklamoi’, Vecherniaia Moskva, 26 July 1933, p. 3
Liber, George, Alexander Dovzhenko: A Life in Soviet Film (BFI: London, 2002).
Lisitsyn, N., ‘Studenty-operatory’, Kino, 10 June 1935, p. 3.
Litovskii, O., ‘Fil'm o bditel'nosti’, Kino, 30 March 1936, p. 3.
Macheret, Aleksandr, ‘Fil'm o bditel'nosti’, Iskusstvo kino, 5 (1936), 3–6 (pp. 3–4).
Maklovskii, V., ‘Moguchee sredstvo propagandy’, Kino, 5 April 1939, p. 3.
Maksimenkov, Leonid, Sumbur vmesto muzyki. Stalinskaia kul'turnaia revoliutsiia 1936–1938
(Moscow: Iuridicheskaia Kniga, 1997).
Mamatova, Lidiia, ed., Kino: politika i liudi 30-e gody, (Moscow: Materik, 1995).
Margolit Evgenii and Viacheslav Shmyrov, Iz''atoe kino (Moscow: Dubl'-D, 1995).
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Mar'iamov, Grigorii, Kremlevskii tsenzor (Moscow: Kinotsentr, 1992).
Mar'iamov, Grigorii, ed., Ivan Pyr'ev v zhizni i na ekrane (Moscow: Kinotsentr, 1994), pp
5–15.
Mikhailov, Vladimir, ed., Iz istorii kino (Moscow: Iskusstvo, 1983).
Mikhailov, Vladimir, ed., ‘Nazvanie kazhdoi kartiny utverzhdaetsiia komissiei Orgbiuro’,
Kinovedcheskie zapiski, Vol. 31 (1996), 108–130 (p. 114).
Mikhailyk, V., ‘O kachestve osvetitel'noi apparatury’, Kino, 16 August 1934, p. 4.
Millin, P., ‘Kinobaza na iuge’, Kino, 8 October 1934, p. 1.
Nembach, Eberhard, Stalins Filmpolitik: Der Umbau der Sowjetischen Filmindustrie 1929 bis
1938 (St. Augustin: Gardez! Verlag, 2001).
208 SOVIET CINEMA

Nesterovich, O., ed., Zhizn' v kino, (Moscow: Iskusstvo, 1979).

Nevezhin, Vladimir, ‘Fil'm “Zakon zhizni” i otluchenie Avdeenko: Versiia istorika’,
Kinovedcheskie zapiski, 20 (1993/94), 94–124, (pp. 96–97, 120).
Nikanorov, M., ‘ODSK v rabochem klube’, Kino i zhizn', 4 (1930), pp. 4–5.
Nil'sen, Vladimir, ‘Programma kursa operatorskogo iskusstva’, Iskusstvo kino, 10 (1936),
pp. 59–60.
Nil'sen, Vladimir, The Cinema as a Graphic Art, (New York: Hill and Wang, 1959).
Nizhny, Vladimir, Lessons with Eisenstein, translated and edited by Ivor Montagu and Jay
Leyda, (New York: Da Capo Press, 1979).
Nusinova Natalia and Iurii Tsivian ‘Aleinikov, M. Zapiski kinematografista’, Iskusstvo
kino, 7 (1996), 104–06.
Osipov, S., ‘Stolichnyi kinoteatr’, Vecherniaia Moskva, 7 September 1938, p. 3.
Oren, Itskhak, and Naftali Prat, eds, Kratkaia evreiskaia entsiklopediia, vol. 7 (Moscow:
HUJ, 1996).
Parfenov, Lev, ed., Zhivye golosa kino (Moscow: Belyi bereg, 1999).
Parfenov, Lev, ed., Akterskaia entsiklopediia (Moscow: Materik, 2002).
Popov, V., ‘K itogam soveshchaniia po templanu 1935 goda’, Sovetskoe kino, 8–9 (1934),
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Pudovkin, Vsevolod, ‘Sovetskaia kinematografiia i zadachi RosARRK’, Sovetskoe kino, 7
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Websites
http://www.library.cjes.ru
http://www.memo.ru
http://www.memorial.kiev.ua
 211

FILMOGRAPHY
Aerograd. Dir. Aleksandr Dovzhenko. Mosfil'm and Ukrainfil'm (Kiev). 1935.
Alexander Nevsky (Aleksandr Nevskii). Dir. Sergei Eisenstein. Mosfil'm. 1938.
Arsenal. Dir. Aleksandr Dovzhenko. VUKFU. 1928.
Battleship Potemkin, The (Bronenosets Potemkin). Dir. Sergei Eisenstein. Goskino. 1925.
Bear, The (Medved' ). Dir. Isidor Annenskii. Belgoskino. 1938.
Bear’s Wedding, The (Medvez'hia svad'ba). Dir. Konstantin Eggert. Mezhrabpom-Rus'. 1926.
Bezhin Meadow (Bezhin lug). Dir. Sergei Eisenstein. Mosfil'm. 1937.
Chapaev. Dir. Sergei and Georgii Vasil'ev. Lenfil'm. 1934.
Circus, The (Tsirk). Dir. Grigorii Aleksandrov. Mosfil'm. 1936.
Dubrovskii. Dir. Aleksandr Ivanovskii. Lenfil'm. 1935.
Dzhulbars. Dir. Vladimir Shneiderov. Mezhrabpomfil'm. 1935.
Earth (Zemlia). Dir. Aleksandr Dovzhenko. VUKFU. 1930.
End of Saint Petersburg, The (Konets Sankt-Peterburga). Dir. Vsevolod Pudovkin. Mezhrabpom-
Rus'. 1927.
Extraordinary Adventures of Mister West in the Land of the Bolsheviks, The (Neobychainye
prikliucheniia Mistera Vesta v strane Bol'shevikov). Dir. Lev Kuleshov. Goskino. 1924.
Feast of Saint Jorgen, T he (Prazdnik Sviatogo Iorgena). Dir. Iakov Protazanov.
Mezhrabpomfil'm. 1930.
Fed'ka. Dir. Nikolai Lebedev. Lenfil'm. 1937.
Fifth Ocean, The (Piatyi okean). Dir. Isidor Annenskii. Ukrainfil'm (Kiev). 1940.
First Cavalry, The (Pervaia konnaia). Dir. Efim Dzigan. Mosfil'm. 1941.
Flyers (Letchiki). Dir. Iulii Raizman. Mosfil'm. 1935.
Fragment of an Empire (Oblomok imperii). Dir. Fridrikh Ermler. Sovkino. 1929.
Friends (Podrugi). Dir. Leo Arnshtam. Lenfil'm. 1935.
Girl in a Hurry, A (Devushka speshit na svidanie). Dir. Mikhail Verner. Belgoskino. 1936.
Girl with Character, A (Devushka s kharakterom). Dir. Konstantin Iudin. Mosfil'm. 1939.
Girl Without a Dowry (Bespridannitsa). Dir. Iakov Protazanov. Mosfil'm. 1936.
Golden Years of Lenfil'm (Zvezdnye gody Lenfil'ma). Dir. Natalia Urvacheva. RTR Planeta,
20 January 2005.
Great Citizen, The (Velikii grazhdanin). 2 parts. Dir. Fridrikh Ermler. Lenfil'm. 1937–39.
Great Consoler, The (Velikii uteshitel'). Dir. Lev Kuleshov. Mezhrabpomfil'm. 1933.
Great Glow, The (Velikoe zarevo-orginal US release title : They Wanted Peace). Dir. Mikhail
Chiaureli. Tbilisskaia kinostudiia. 1938.
212 SOVIET CINEMA

Great Life, A (Bol'shaia zhizn'). Dir. Leonid Lukov. Ukrainfil'm (Kiev). 1940.
Happy Guys, The (Veselye rebiata). Dir. Grigorii Aleksandrov. Moskinokombinat. 1934.
Happiness (Schast'e). Dir. Aleksandr Medvedkin. Moskinokombinat. 1934.
Hearts of Four (Serdtsa chetyrekh). Dir. Konstantin Iudin. Mosfil'm. 1940.
House of the Dead, The. (Mertvyi dom). Dir. Vasilii Fedorov. Mezhrabpomfil'm. 1932.
Iakov Sverdlov. Dir. Sergei Iutkevich. Soiuzdetfil'm. 1941.
If War Comes Tomorrow (Esli zavtra voina). Dir. Efim Dzigan. Mosfil'm. 1938.
Komsomol'sk. Dir. Sergei Gerasimov. Lenfil'm. 1937.
Lad from the Taiga, The (Paren' iz Taigi). Dir. Ivan Pravov and Olga Preobrazhenskaia.
Mosfil'm. 1941.
Last Night, The (Posledniaia noch' ). Dir. Iulii Raizman. Mosfil'm. 1937.
Law of Life, The (Zakon zhizni). Dir. Aleksandr Stolper and Boris Ivanov. Mosfil'm. 1940.
Lenin in October (Lenin v oktiabre). Dir. Mikhail Romm. Mosfil'm. 1937.
Lenin in 1918 (Lenin v 1918). Dir. Mikhail Romm. Mosfil'm. 1939.
Magic Pearl, The (Volshebnoe zerno). Dir. Valentin Kadochnikov and Fedor Filipov. Mosfil'm.
1941.
Man with a Gun, The (Chelovek s ruzh'em). Dir. Sergei Iutkevich. Lenfil'm. 1938.
Mashenka (Mashen'ka). Dir. Iulii Raizman. Mosfil'm. 1941.
Miners (Shakhtery). Dir. Sergei Iutkevich. Lenfil'm. 1937.
Mother (Mat' ). Dir. Vsevolod Pudovkin. Mezhrabpom-Rus'. 1926.
My Grandmother (Moia babushka). Dir. Kote Mikaberidze. Goskinoprom Gruzii. 1929.
October, (Oktiabr'). Dir. Sergei Eisenstein. Sovkino. 1927.
Old and the New, The (Staroe i novoe). Dir. Sergei Eisenstein. Sovkino. 1929.
Old Jockey, The (Staryi naezdnik). Dir. Boris Barnet. Mosfil'm. 1940.
Party Card, The (Partiinyi bilet). Dir. Ivan Pyr'ev. Mosfil'm. 1936.
Peter the Great (Petr pervyi, 1938). 2 parts. Dir. Vladimir Petrov. Lenfil'm. 1937–38.
Prometheus (Prometei). Dir. Ivan Kavalaridze. Ukrainfil'm (Kiev). 1935.
Pugachev. Dir. Pavel Petrov-Bytov. Lenfil'm. 1937.
Return of Maksim, The (Vozvrashchenie Maksima). Dir. Grigorii Kozintsev and Leonid
Trauberg. Lenfil'm. 1937.
Radiant Path, The (Svetlyi put' ), Dir, Grigorii Aleksandrov, Mosfil'm. 1940.
Revolt of the Fishermen (Vosstanie rybakov). Dir. Erwin Piscator. Mezhrabpomfil'm. 1934.
Rich Bride, The (Bogataia nevesta). Dir. Ivan Pyr'ev. Ukrainfil'm (Kiev). 1937.
Sailors (Moriaki). Dir. Vladimir Braun. Ukrainfil'm (Odessa). 1939.
Shchors. Dir. Aleksandr Dovzhenko. Ukrainfil'm (Kiev). 1939.
Stepan Razin, Dir. Ivan Pravov and Olga Preobrazhenskaia. Mosfil'm. 1939.
Storm, The (Groza). Dir. Vladimir Petrov. Soiuzfil'm (Leningrad). 1934.
Strict Youth, A (Strogii iunosha). Dir. Abram Room. Ukrainfil'm (Kiev). 1936.
Suvorov. Dir. Vsevolod Pudovkin and Mikhail Doller. Mosfil'm. 1941.
Swineherdess and the Shepherd, The (Svinarka i pastukh). Dir. Ivan Pyr'ev. Mosfil'm. 1941.
Three Comrades (Tri tovarishcha). Dir. Semen Timoshenko. Lenfil'm. 1935.
Tractor Drivers, The (Traktoristy). Dir Ivan Pyr'ev. Mosfil'm. 1939.
Turksib. Dir. Viktor Turin. Vostokfil'm. 1929.
Virgin Soil Upturned (Podniatoi tseliny). Dir. Iulii Raizman. Mosfil'm. 1939.
Volga Volga. Dir. Grigorii Aleksandrov. Mosfil'm. 1938.
Vyborg Side, The (Vyborgskaia storona). Dir. Grigorii Kozintsev and Leonid Trauberg.
Lenfil'm. 1938.
 FILMOGRAPHY 213

We are from Kronstadt (My iz Kronshtadta). Dir. Efim Dzigan. Mosfil'm. 1936.
Youth of Maksim (Iunost' Maksima). Dir. Grigorii Kozintsev and Leonid Trauberg. Lenfil'm.
1934.

Unseen Soviet Films

Ashamed to Say, (Stydno Skazat'). Dir. Pavel Armand. Soiuzkino. 1930.
Cheliuskin. Dir. A Shafron. Soiuzkinokhronika. 1934.
Conveyor Belt of Death, The (Konveier smerti). Dir. Ivan Pyr'ev. Souizfil'm. 1933.
Dark Reign, The (Temnoe tsarstvo). Dir. Aleksandr Gavronskii. VUFKU. 1929.
Fighters (Bortsy). Dir. Gustav von Wagenheim. Mezhrabpomfil'm. 1936.
Gay Canary, The (Veselaia kanareika). Dir. Lev Kuleshov. Mezhrabpomfil'm. 1929.
Guest, The (Gost' ). Dir. Herbert Rappoport. Lenfil'm. 1939.
Ivan. Dir. Aleksandr Dovzhenko. Ukrainfil'm (Kiev). 1932.
Karo. Dir. Artashes Ai-Artian, Armenkino, 1937.
Khaz Push. Dir. Amo Bek-Nazarian. Armenkino. 1928.
Large Wings (Bol'shie kryl'ia). Dir. Mikhail Dubson. Lenfil'm. 1937.
Marriage, The (Zhenit'ba). Dir. Erast Garin and Khesia Lokshin. Lenfil'm. 1936.
Miss Mend. Dir. Fedor Otsep. Mezhrabpom-Rus'. 1926.
My Homeland (Moia rodina). Dir. Aleksandr Zarkhi and Iosif Kheifits. Rosfil'm (Leningrad).
1933.
Path of the Enthusiasts, The (Put' entuziastov). Dir Nikolai Okhlopkov. Sovkino. 1930.
Quiet Flows the Don (Tikhii Don). Dir. Ivan Pravov and Olga Preobrazhenskaia. Soiuzkino.
1930.
Salamander (Salamandra). Dir. Grigorii Roshal'. Mezhrabpomfil'm and Prometeusfil'm
(Berlin). 1928.
Simple Case, A (Prostoi sluchai). Dir. Vsevolod Pudovkin. Mezhrabpomfil'm. 1932.
Strange Woman, The (Postoronniaia zhenshchina). Dir. Ivan Pyr'ev. Sovkino. 1929.
Tanka the Bar Girl (Tan'ka traktirshchitsa). Dir. Boris Svetozarov. Sovkino. 1929.
Theft of Sight (Krazha zreniia). Dir. Lev Kuleshov. Mezhrabpomfil'm. 1934.
Twelfth Night (Dvenadtsataia noch' ). Dir. Ian frid. Lenfil'm. 1955.

Unseen Non-Soviet Films

Band Concert, The. Dir. Wilfred Jackson. USA. 1935.
Blue Fox. Dir. Duke Worne. USA. 1921.
Chicago. Dir. Frank Urson. USA. 1927.
Moulin Rouge. Dir. Ewald André Dupont. UK. 1928.
Peculiar Penguins. Dir. Wilfred Jackson. USA. 1934.
Three Little Pigs. Dir. Burt Gillet. USA. 1933.
 INDEX
Note: Where there are several page Anoshchenko, Nikolai 22
numbers against a heading, those in Antikol, Rafail 85
bold indicate major treatment of Antipov, Nikolai 62
the topic. Ardatov, Anatoli 77
ARK (The Association of
Revolutionary Cinematography)
Abramov, Al. 167 (see ARRK)
Abrikosov, Andrei 132, 133 Armand, Pavel 57
actors 87–88, 101, 102, 132, 145 Armenia 54, 85, 88
administration, film 15–22, 60, Arnshtam, Leo 87
179 ARRK (The Association of Workers
(see also Soiuzkino; Sovkino) of Revolutionary
administration, studio 121–29 Cinematography) 56–57, 76–
Aleinikov, Moisei 75–76, 128, 129, 78, 105–9, 112
134 Arsenal 64
Alexander Nevsky 28, 103 artistic councils 47, 52, 59, 121,
Alexandrov, Grigori 23, 41, 107, 127, 133–37
135 Arts Committee 37–40
background 146, 174, 175 Arustanov, Grigori 75–76
(see also Circus, The; Happy Guys, Ashamed to Say 57
The; Volga Volga) Atarbekov, Vadim 83
All-Union Committee for the Arts Audio-Cinema, New York 22–23
37–40 Azerbaijan 85–86, 88
All-Union Party Conference on
Cinema 16 Babel, Isaac 87
America 22–23, 28, 31–32, 33, 35– Babitsky, Boris 49, 85
36, 116 Bakunts, Aksel 88
Andrievsky, Alexander 122 Barnet, Boris 146
Andrikanis, Yevgeni 111 Barskaia, Margarita 41
Andronikashvili, Kira 86 Battleship Potemkin 172
Annales school 4–5 Bear, The 147
Annensky, Isidor 147 Bear’s Wedding, The 87, 175
Anninsky, Alexander 131, 132 Bek-Nazarian, Amo 26
216 SOVIET CINEMA

Belgoskino 76, 81, 88 Cinema Committee (1929) 18

Belorussia 54, 86, 88 Cinema Committee (1938) 29, 42–
Bezhin Meadow 41, 60, 67, 87, 150– 48, 128, 147–48
51 (see also GUPKhF)
Bilinsky, Miron 45 ‘cinema for the millions’ 16, 48–49,
Black Consul, The 150 61–62, 159–60, 176–77, 183
Bleiman, Mikhail 128, 163 Cinema Institute 78–79, 86, 116,
Blium, Karl 86 140–45, 149–53, 182
Blue and Pink 45 cinema, role of 13–14, 93–98
Bluebird 131 cinemas 23–30, 40, 63
Bolshakov, Ivan 46–48, 52, 60, 116, (see also cinefication)
126, 131 Circus, The 81, 98, 152, 154–59
and artistic councils 47, 134, 137 ‘class enemy’ films 160–68
Bolsheviks 4, 5–12, 56, 179–83 classic literature, films based on 96
Bolshintsov, Manuel 163 Conveyor Belt of Death, The 58
Boltiansky, Grigori 109 critical realism 6
Breslavsky, Mikhail 85 ‘cultural revolution’ 72, 96, 141–42
Brik, Osip 134
Brokman, Yevgeni 79 Danashevsky, Anatoli 76
Bronshtein, Lev 87 Dark Reign, The 73
Brother Hero 80 decrees 16–19, 33–34, 42–44, 47–
Bruk, Veniamin 83 48, 61, 67
Bubnov, Andrei 61, 62 defensive mentality 5–12, 14, 103,
Bufeev (head of sales, Sovkino) 74 138, 179–83
censorship 53, 54, 69
cadres, cinema 16–17, 142–43 Dukelsky 44
cameramen 146, 147, 151–52 Shumiatsky 51
cameras 31 Demutsky, Danylo 89
career prospects 145–49 Diky, Alexei 87
cells, Party 57–58 Dinamov, Sergei 61, 62
censorship 2, 40–41, 53–70, 123– directors, film 41–42, 45–46, 87,
29, 176, 180 115–17, 123, 146
Chameleon 61 (see also individual directors)
Chapaev 46, 94, 98, 159 directors, studio 129–30, 131
Charentz, Yeghishe 88 Dirin, Nikolai 87
Charot, Mikhas 88 discipline, workplace 21, 34–35, 44,
Cheliuskin 67 50–51, 114, 132
Chelli (artist, Uzbekgoskino) 80 distribution, film 23–29, 42–43
Chertulov, Mikhail 86 Dobrenko, Yevgeni 3
Chiaureli, Mikhail 117 Doller, Mikhail 45, 74–75
Chicago 54 Dorokhin, Nikolai 173
Christie, Ian 1 Dosvitny, Oles 80
Chubar, Yeghia 88 Dovzhenko, Alexander 64–65, 89,
Chuzhin, Yakov 83 115, 151
cine-city 35–37, 50 Dubrovsky 96
cinefication 18, 23–33, 42–43, 50, Dubrovsky-Eshke, Boris 136
111 Dubson, Mikhail 41, 66, 87, 88
 I NDEX 217

Dukelsky, Semyon 29, 44–46, 51– film education 139–45, 149–53,

52, 90, 115, 116 182–83
Dunaevsky, Isaac 156 film-production 121–29, 131–32
Dunaiats (chief accountant, film stock 30–31
Vostokfilm) 83 finance 21–22, 40, 45, 48, 101–3,
Dylo, Osip 81 130
Dzherpetian, Maria 88 Cinema Institute 144–45
Dzhulbars 131, 159–60 First Cavalry, The 102, 103
Dzigan, Efim 102, 146, 160 Flyers 87, 160
foreign films 25–26, 54
economic accountability (khozraschet) foreign influences 22–23, 31–33,
130 35–36, 116
education reaction to 71–72, 85, 88–89, 90
film-makers 139–45, 149–53, Fragment of an Empire 99
182–83 Frid, Ian 147
role of cinema 13–14, 93–98 Friends 57, 87
Eggert, Konstantin 87, 88, 175 Fyodorov, Vasili 59
Eisenstein, Sergei 23, 107, 116, 127, Fyodorova, Zoia 89
128, 146
at Cinema Institute 79, 141, 142, Gabrilovich, Yevgeni 171–73
143, 149–53 Galka, Mate 111
(see also Bezhin Meadow; October) Galperin, Alexander 151
Ekelchik, Yuri 115 Gardin, Vladimir 87
Ekk, Nikolai 131 Gavronsky, Alexander 73
End of Saint Petersburg, The 74 Gay Canary, The 87
Enei, Yevgeni 88 Georgia 47, 54, 86, 88
Engels, Viktor 79 Gerasimov, Sergei 164
Engineer Goff 88 German, Emil 73–74
Envy 102 Gessen, Daniil 80
Epik, Grigori 80, 81 GIK (State Institute of
equipment Cinematography) (see Cinema
film-making 20, 22–23, 31–32, Institute)
145 Ginsburg, Samuil 85
projection 23–24, 31, 111 Girl Rushes to a Meeting, A 87, 160
Erdman, Nikolai 73–74 Girl with Character, A 160
Ermler, Fridrikh 28, 41, 98, 99, Girl Without a Dowry 60
175, 176 Girniak, Osip 80
The Great Citizen 163–67 Glavrepertkom (see GRK)
executions 77, 79, 80–89 Gold (see Lad from the Taiga, The)
exports 32–33 Goldin (head of trade, Sovkino) 74
Goltsman, Yevgeniia 83
factories 30, 34–35 Great Citizen, The 28, 89, 98, 163–
Feast of Saint Jorgen, The 122–23, 124 67, 168
Fedka 46 Great Consoler, The 87
Fifth Ocean, The 160 Great Glow, The 96
Fighters 89 Great Life, A 137
Filippov, Fyodor 124, 136, 146 Great Terror 71, 81–89, 148
218 SOVIET CINEMA

Grinberg, Mikhail 113 Iosilevich, Viktor 83

Grinfeld, Natan 82, 85 Irchan, Miroslav 80
GRK (Glavrepertkom) (State Ivanov, Alexander 131
Repertoire Committee) 53–55, Ivanov, Boris 66, 67, 146
56, 62, 122 Ivanov, Viktor 147
Groshev (director, Mosfilm) 128,
135 job prospects 145–49
GTK (State College of journalists 78, 80, 86
Cinematography) 139–40
Guest, The 103 Kadochnikov, Valentin 124, 136,
GUK (State Directorate for the Film 146
Industry) 39–40, 62–63, 83, 85, Kadysh, Alexander 85
118 Kagan, M.A. 85
GUKF (State Directorate for the Kaliuzhny, Alexei 88
Film and Photo Industry) 33– Kapler, Alexei 87
34, 37, 38–39, 114, 140 Karo 167
GUPKhF (Main Administration for Katsnelson, Leonti 39, 85
the Production of Feature Films) Kavaleridze, Ivan 40–41, 60, 66
125–26, 127, 130, 136 Kei-Kheru 86
GURK (Main Administration for the Kenez, Peter 3, 4
Control of Shows and Kerzhentsev, Platon 38, 39
Repertory) 39, 55 Kheifits, Joseph 64
Gusev, Viktor 58 Khersonsky, Khrisanf 78
Gusman, Boris 87, 89 Khomutov, Vasili 85
khozraschet (economic accountability)
Happiness 169–71 130
Happy Guys, The 49, 62, 73, 81, Kiev (see Ukraine)
154 Kino 86, 110, 114–15
Hearts of Four, The 68–69, 135 Kirshon, Vladimir 111
Hollywood, Soviet (see cine-city) Kiva, Nikolai 126, 127, 130
Holmgren, Beth 155 Klado, Nikolai 80
House of the Dead, The (Home and Koffman, Joey 23
Community) 58–59 Komsomolsk 164–65
houses of cinema 117–18 Konsovsky, Dmitri 87–88
Korolev, Konstantin 83, 84
ideological concerns 19, 21, 35, 38, Kosior, Stanislav 62
43–44, 151 Koval-Samborsky, Ivan 87
(see also censorship; thematic Kozinstev, Leonid 41
planning) Kremlin cinema 63
If War Comes Tomorrow 97 Kucherovsky, Alexander 85
Ignatenko (head of production, Kudriavsteva, Antonina 77
Uzbekgoskino) 80 Kuleshov, Lev 41, 61, 79, 87, 149,
Institute of Cinematography (see 176
Cinema Institute) Kulik, Ivan 88
intentionalism 6 Kultpros 62–63
Intorgkino (see Soiuzintorgkino) Kunin (Uzbekgoskino) 80
Iogansen, Mikhailo 88 Kuprashvili, Bachua 88
 I NDEX 219

Kurianov, Alexander 126 Medvedkin, Alexander 47, 175,

Kurs, Alexander 87, 89 176, 183
Kyrlya, Yvan 87 Happiness 169–71
mentalities 4–5
Lad from the Taiga, The 127 (see also defensive mentality)
Large Wings 66, 87 Mezhrabpomfilm
Last Night, The 62–63, 100, 171–74 administration 17, 19, 121–23,
Laurent, Natacha 2 126, 129, 130, 148
Law of Life, The 66, 67 artistic council 133–34
Lazurin (Kiev studio) 60 and censorship 59
League of Militant Godless 122 purges 74–75
Lebedev-Kumach, Vasili 156 Mikaberidze, Kote 54, 131
Lebedev, Nikolai 46 Mikhailyk, Vasili 85
Lebedev, Stepan 79 Miners 96
lecturers 141, 143, 149–53 Misiano, Francesco 129
Lenfilm (Leningrad studio) Molchanov, Alexander 83, 84
administration 39, 114, 132 Molotov, Viacheslav 24
artistic council 47, 134 Monosson, Lev 86
and censorship 57 Mordokhovich, Mikhail 86
purges 82, 85 Moscow cinemas 24, 25–26, 29–
Lenin in 1918 28, 87, 95–96, 98, 30
115, 167 Moscow Society of Cinema
Lenin in October 82, 167 Personnel 105–6
Lenin, Vladimir 8, 9 Mosfilm (Moscow studio)
Leonidov, Boris 80 administration 101, 114, 124–26,
Lezhnevich, Ales 81 127–28, 130–32
Lialina, S.S. 78–79 artistic council 47, 134, 136
Litovsky, O. 163 and censorship 57, 58
Lokot, Vasili 87 film directors 146
Lopatinsky, Faust 87 purges 85
Lukashevich, Tatiana 146 Mother 74
Lukov, Leonid 147 Moulin Rouge 54
musicals 156–58, 159
Macheret, Alexander 163 My Grandmother 54, 131
Magic Pearl, The 124–26, 127–28 My Homeland 64, 87
Malkin, Boris 134
Man with a Gun, The 115 Nazar Stodolia 88
Mansfeld, Ernst 89 Nefedov, Vasili 79
Manukhov, Konstantin 79 Nembach, Eberhard 2
Maretskaia, Vera 89 Nikanorov, M. 110
Mariamov, Grigori 83–84 Nilsen, Vladimir 37, 141, 149, 151–
Martirosian, Amasi 88 53
Martov, Zhosef 115 arrests and execution 81–82, 83,
Marxism 7–8, 9, 150 86
Mashenka 125, 173–74 NKVD (People’s Commissariat of
Mass, Vladimir 73–74 Internal Affairs) 82, 83, 90
Maxim Trilogy 94
220 SOVIET CINEMA
October 64, 81, 151
Odessa (see Ukraine)
ODSK (Society of Friends of Soviet
Cinema) 56–57, 78, 109–12
Okulov (building sector deputy) 85
Old and the New, The 81, 151
Old Fortress 45
Old Jockey, The 74
Olesha, Yuri 102
Orelovich, Solomon 85, 147
Orgburo cinema commission 60–
62
Party Card, The 160–63, 168
Path of the Enthusiasts, The 99
Pazin, Anton 77
peasants (see working class)
Peasants 28
Pechalin-Perez, Grigori 85
Penzo, Ida 82
Pepo 88
personnel management (see
discipline, workplace)
Peter the Great 40, 46
Petrov (engineer) 85
Petrov-Bytov, Pavel 94, 175
Petrov, Vladimir 46
Piatigorsky, Yuli 85
Pilniak, Boris 86
Piotrovsky, Adrian 85
Pipinashvilli, Konstantin 146
Pirogov, Pyotr 87
Piscator, Erwin 87
Podobed, Porfiri 74
Poet and Tsar 87
Polishchuk, Valerian 80, 81
Politburo, censorship role 66–67
political films 93–98, 160–68
Polonsky, Konstantin 125–26, 131
Portnov, Viktor 87
Pravov, Ivan 132, 146
Preobrazhenskaia, Olga 132
projection equipment 23–24, 31,
111
projectionists 111, 112, 114
proletarians (see working class)
Prometheus 41, 59, 60, 66
Protazanov, Yakov 60, 61, 122–23,
122–23, 134, 175
Pudovkin, Vsevolod 77, 108–9, 117,
146
films 45, 74, 75
Pugachev 94
purges 17–18, 71–90, 148
Pyrev, Ivan 46–47, 77, 108, 176
background 146, 174, 175
films 98, 135, 159, 160–63
Queen of Spades 45
Quiet Flows the Don 99
Rabis 107–8, 112
Radiant Path, The 98
Rafes, Moisei 98
Raizman, Yuli 130, 146, 175, 183
films 62–63, 87, 100, 125, 160,
171–74
RAPP (Russian Association of
Proletarian Writers) 106
Rappoport, Herbert 103
Return of Maxim, The 94
Return of Nathan Becker 88
Revolt of the Fishermen 88
Rich Bride, The 98, 159
Riutin, Martemian 20, 73
Road to Life, The 87
Romm, Mikhail 41, 44–45, 46, 48,
58, 115, 117, 137
arrest of Slivkin 82
background 146
Room, Abram 59, 77, 79, 149
RosARRK (Russian Association of
Workers of Revolutionary
Cinematography) 109, 118
Rosiner (actress) 108
Rossnabfilm 28, 42
Rossolovskaia, Vanda 86
Rubailo, Alentina 2
rural cinemas 24, 26, 43
‘Rus’ 75
Rutes, M 166–67
Sailors 97
Sakharov (alleged terrorist) 83
 I NDEX 221

salaries 45–46, 113, 114, 115, 129, Soiuzkinoprokat 29, 42, 43

176 Sokol, Valentin 83
Salys, Rimgaila 155–56 Sokolov, Fyodor 85
Satel, Yevgeni 85 Sokolov, Ippolit 22, 23, 78
satire 169–71, 183 Sokolovskaia, Elena 85, 131
script production 43–44, 46, 57– sound 22–24, 22–24, 28, 30, 31,
59, 61, 102, 122, 123–25, 128 145
scriptwriters 87, 92–93, 100, 115, Sovkino 16, 58, 74, 82, 108
146, 147 thematic planning 98, 101, 102
Semyonov, Nikolai 124 Stalin, Joseph 37, 42, 61–66, 61–
Shaposhnikov, Adrian 167 66, 67, 166
Sharifzade, Abbas 88 and Danashevsky 76
Shchors 64–65, 115 and Riutin 73
Sheffer, Lev 56 Staritskaia-Cherniakhovskaia,
Shklovsky, Viktor 58–59, 78 Liudmila 80
Shkolnik, Matvei 85 State Film Institute (see Cinema
Shneider, Mikhail 78, 79, 149 Institute)
Shneiderov, Vladimir 131, 159 Stepan Razin 131, 132, 133
Sholokhov, Mikhail 173 Stepanov, Vladimir 85
Shorin, Alexander 22 Stetsky, Alexei 61, 62
Shpis, Boris 88 Stolper, Alexander 66, 67, 146
Shukailo, Pavel 86 Storm, The 96
Shumiatsky, Boris 15, 20–22, 34– Strange Woman, The 108
37, 38–42, 48–51, 179–80 Strict Youth, A 59–60, 102
arrest and execution 83–84 Stroganov, Stepan 79
and censorship 60, 61–62, 118 structuralism 6
and cinefication 29, 31–32 students 141–44, 150–51
Shutko, Kirill 86 studios
Shvedchikov, Konstantin 20, 82, administration 121–29
99 artistic councils 47, 52, 59, 121,
Shveitser, Vladimir 74, 123 127, 133–37
Sibtekhfilm 86 and censorship 57–60
Sidorenko, Ivan 79 directors 129–30, 131
Sidorov, Ivan 83 (see also individual studios)
Sidorov, Nikita 79 Sultanov, Gulam 85–86
Sillov, Vladimir 77 Suvorov 45
Sinclair, Upton 76, 86 Sverdlov, Samuil 83
Slivkin, Albert 82, 83 Svetozarov, Boris 78
Smirnov, Yakov 83, 85 Swineherdess and the Shepherd, The 98,
Soiuzdetfilm 47, 148 135, 159
Soiuzintorgkino 33, 85
Soiuzkino 18–21, 22–23, 75–76, Tager, Pavel 22
112 Tasin, Georgi 88
and censorship 57, 58 Tauschenbach, Walter 89
and Cinema Institute 140, 141, taxation 18
142–43, 144 Taylor, Richard 1, 3
thematic planning 99 teachers 141, 143, 149–53
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theatres (see cinemas) Vetrov, Boris 169

Theft of Sight 61 VGIK (All-Union/Higher State
thematic planning 91–104, 180–81 Institute of Cinematography) (see
Three Comrades 87 Cinema Institute)
ticket prices 30 Virgin Soil Upturned 173
Tikhonov (director, Mosfilm) 132 Vlysko, Oleks 80
Tisse, Eduard 23, 79, 107, 149, 151 Volchek, Boris 115
Titberidze, Amvrosi 86 Volga Volga 49, 74, 81, 98, 152
Tiutiunnik, Yuri 80 Volny, Anatol 88
Tractor Drivers, The 159 Volpin, Mikhail 74
trade unions 107–8, 112–15, 116– Vorony, Mark 80–81
17, 118, 119–20 Vorony, Nikolai 88
training (see education, film-makers) Vostokfilm 77, 83, 148
Trauberg, Ilia 41, 117, 136 Vovsy, Grigori 86
Trauberg, Leonid 118 Vyborg Side, The 94
Tretiakov, Sergei 87 Vyshinsky, Andrei 67
Tulub, Zinaida 88
Tur brothers 158 wages 45–46, 113, 114, 115, 129,
Turin, Viktor 131 176
Turksib 131 We are from Kronstadt 160
Turovskaya, Maya 167 West, relationship with 10
Twelfth Night 147 (see also foreign influences)
Two Mothers 56–57 Widdis, Emma 171
Without a Dowry 96
Udarnik cinema, Moscow 24 working class
Ukraine 47, 54, 59–60, 80–81, 85, audiences 56–57, 109–11, 112
87, 88, 102 cinema personnel 17, 142–43,
film education 139–40, 147 148
Union of Cinema Personnel 112–15 Yalovy, Mikhail 80
unions, trade 107–8, 112–15, 116– Yashin, David 80
17, 118, 119–20 Yegorova, Galina 88
urban cinemas 24, 26, 43 Youngblood, Denise 2, 3
Urusova, Yevdokiia 88 Youth of Maxim, The 94, 95
USA (see America) Yudin, Konstantin 68, 135, 146,
Usievich, Vladimir 83 160
Uspensky, Viacheslav 79 Yukov, Konstantin 83
Uzbekistan 79–80 Yutkevich, Sergei 41, 115, 128–29

Vainshtok, Vladimir 136 Zaitsev, Yakov 87, 89

Vaks, Boris 169 Zarkhi, Alexander 64
Vaks, Leo 167 Zeldovich, Grigori 125
Vasilchikov, Yuri 80 Zhdanov, Andrei 62, 67, 68–69, 135
Vasilev, Georgi 46, 94, 159 Zhilin, Vasili 83
Vasilev, Sergei 46, 94, 159, 166 Zhzhenov, Georgi 89
Vasileva, Raisa 87 Zlatogorova, Tatiana 87
Verner, Mikhail 160 Zvenigora 80
Vertov, Dziga 41
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