Vid na zhitelstvo

«Residence Permit» (this is how «Vid na zhitelstvo» is translated into English) is an unexpectedly powerful film (and one that is completely undeservedly forgotten today). Back in the day, it truly captivated me. Initially conceived as a propaganda piece meant to warn about the fate of a defector, Residence Permit unexpectedly turns into a deep, tragic, and poignant story about the thirst for freedom-and the unpreparedness for it. About the fact that everything in life comes at a cost-and sometimes, there is nothing left to pay with. About the existential loneliness of a human being.

In the USSR, "defectors" was the term used for those who had fled from the so-called "Soviet paradise"-more precisely, those who had managed to obtain permission to cross the border and then chose to stay in the West.

Such is the fate of the film's protagonist-psychoanalyst Rostislav Saveliev, brilliantly portrayed by the great Russian actor Albert Filozov.

A Necessary Explanation During the Soviet era, USSR citizens had no right to freely travel abroad. This restriction applied to all Soviet residents except for a small, privileged elite: spies, diplomats, so-called "journalists" (who were, in fact, propagandists), top athletes, certain scientists, and a handful of theater groups. Even they were under constant surveillance by KGB officers accompanying them on foreign trips. There are documented cases of athletes, scientists, and performers seeking political asylum in the West.

Everything mentioned above fully applies to the film's creators. Among them, only one-Sergey Mikhalkov, the official co-writer of the script and the author of the USSR national anthem-was part of that privileged class.

However, the one who truly needed an overseas assignment was the film's cinematographer, Yuri Sokol. But making a propaganda film not only against so-called "defectors" but also against the West-on Western soil-was, of course, out of the question. The authorities likely feared that members of the film crew might not return to the USSR. And their fears were justified: in the years that followed, several members of the production team managed to leave for the West, including cinematographer Yuri Sokol, screenwriter Aleksandr Shlepyanov (also known as the co-writer of one of the best Soviet spy thrillers, «Myortvyy sezon» (translated into English as «Dead Season»), the film's art director Anatoly Brusilovsky, as well as actresses Viktoriya Fyodorova and Inna Sergeyeva.

Now, back to the cinematographer. Unable to shoot footage in the West, Yuri Sokol had to rely on foreign archival footage and splice it together with scenes filmed in what were most likely the then-Soviet-occupied Baltic republics (countries annexed by the USSR in 1940). However, the resulting visual sequence turned out to be artistically convincing. I get the distinct impression that most of the scenes were shot in real locations rather than on soundstage sets, which lent the film a sense of intimacy and authenticity.

Although the film includes episodes of anti-Western propaganda in accordance with the genre's conventions, at its core, it is a serious, poignant, and deeply moving story about the existential loneliness of a human being in the world. The film is relatively free from propaganda (aside from a few scenes about the activities of "special services," which are almost touching in their satirical absurdity)-even though, on the surface, it appears to criticize "Western life." And although the Soviet filmmakers at the time were not particularly well-versed in the flaws and vices of the free world, it is all the more surprising that they rarely miss the mark and, in some cases, manage to grasp certain truths with remarkable accuracy.

Here is just one example.

Among other things, the plot includes a scene where the main character finds himself in the editorial office of a Russian émigré newspaper. I want to dwell on this for a moment. Not in the 1970s, but in the late 1980s and early 1990s, I had the opportunity (occasionally, briefly, but vividly) to observe the inner workings of such an émigré editorial office-the Frankfurt-based Posev. The filmmakers, of course, exaggerated their hints at the "venality" and "lack of principles" of such editorial teams: the KGB's insistent claim that "whoever pays calls the tune" was not applicable to these small newspapers. No "American intelligence services" were financing them, of course-which is precisely why the life of such émigré offices was quite austere and difficult, shaping both the atmosphere and the complex interpersonal dynamics within the team. Moreover, one must take into account that these offices often brought together a mix of first-, second-, and third-wave emigrants, who not only disliked each other but also struggled to understand one another.

Now, back to the film. There is a character named Karpov, brilliantly played by Adolf Ilyin. His character, Karpov, is certainly a caricature-but what makes this caricature so delightful is not even its resemblance to real-life editorial staff, but rather the remarkable brutal grotesqueness, the bullseye accuracy that Ilyin achieves in just a few minutes of a tiny role.

What could an actor from a Soviet provincial theater possibly know about the inner workings of an émigré newspaper office? Nothing. All he had at his disposal was forty years of survival experience under Soviet reality, twenty-five years of theatrical acting, fifteen years of playing small roles in film, and four years of World War II (he served as a medic, pulling the wounded off the battlefield-one wonders how the soldiers felt about a medic named Adolf?).

None of this had anything to do with what was happening in the film. And yet, it turned out to be more than enough to create a chillingly convincing image-an image "with a biography," I would say. Through just a few lines, intonations, and even the way his character is dressed and moves, Ilyin presents us with a collaborator (clearly a former police officer under Nazi occupation) who fled with the Germans and found refuge where he could use official "anti-communism" as a protective shield. He despises not only all these Fräuleins but also, evidently, the new émigrés-and he knows very well that every scrap counts.

In this role, Ilyin frighteningly convincingly portrays the very essence of a typical Russian: with his indescribable contempt for all those unlike himself, his inferiority complex, his hidden envy and overt hatred of aristocracy and education, his ability to survive under any circumstances, his primeval nature, and his guiding principle-the principle of the Soviet Gulag: you die today, I die tomorrow.

I strongly recommend that anyone with three minutes to spare watch from 1:05:26 to 1:08:17.

The USSR is gone, and the West is no longer what it was 50 years ago, but take a closer look-how interesting, how (dare I say) non-trivial the characters of the 1960s and 1970s appear in this film. Since I may have already spent too much time on an actor in a minor supporting role, I must at least briefly mention the rest of the cast.

Let's start with Filozov (Rostislav Savelyev). Without him, the film would have been entirely different-or rather, not just "different," but nonexistent as a cultural phenomenon. (It's no coincidence that, according to rumors, Alain Delon was amazed by Filozov's performance after working with him on the rather formulaic and clichéd Teheran-43-and that's despite the fact that Filozov wasn't really acting in that so-called "role," but rather suffering through it.) Inna Sergeeva (Joy) is something utterly inexplicable! As the film's production designer, Anatoly Brusilovsky, once told me in conversation, she was "cuckoo"-meaning she didn't just play eccentricity, she truly was otherworldly. Incidentally, she soon emigrated to Germany-and vanished without a trace in exile.

Leonid Nedovich (Randolph) is absolutely magnificent. He lived to 69. He started acting in films relatively late, only in 1955. Throughout his entire acting career, Nedovich never played a leading role in film. In Residence Permit, his part is tiny-essentially just three brief episodes-but watch how exceptional he is in them: what a performance, what presence! Doesn't he remind you a bit of Stephen Fry? If you don't have time to watch the entire film, here are the key timestamps: (1) 14:55-18:22; (2) 54:45-57:15; (3) 1:22:00-1:23:00.

And Vladimir Sapozhnin (the "psychoanalyst")! He was born on July 26, 1906, into a family of circus riders during their tour in Ukraine. He lived a long life, rich with vivid and extraordinary events.

He has been forgotten. That fate awaits us all-and it is unjust! Culture, civilization, progress, science, and technology are built not only (I am convinced-not primarily) by giant corporations or individual geniuses but by the efforts of millions of talented people who never became famous.

The "middle class" of culture is the foundation of our society just as much-if not more-than the middle class in economics and trade. "Middle" does not mean "mediocre" or "dull." Yet, far from all of them even had their "15 minutes of fame." Of course, Sapozhnin's film career was disappointingly brief-but just watch this divertissement (25:05-28:30 and 35:42-39:34).

Mikhail Sadkovich (Mr. Igor) is inimitable. According to the aforementioned film artist Anatoly Brusilovsky, Sadkovich was simply playing himself. In general, the non-professional actors who shone in this film deserve special recognition.

I almost forgot: how wonderfully Ants Eskola plays the police commissioner! His dialogue with Savelyev is priceless:

• Mr. Police Commissioner, I have come to inform you: I have decided to stay in your country.

• Very pleased that you have chosen our country. And, in particular, our police station.

I deeply appreciate and truly love this film.

A 30-years-old psychoanalyst (!) from Leningrad presumably falls in love with a high-maintenance whore who is an ex-Russian and visiting the Soviet Union, and jumps the ship in a "Western country" that looks like shabby East Germany but everyone there addresses each other "sir" all the time for no apparent reason. He claims he doesn't "choose freedom" but wants "to have everything" because "they appreciate talent in the West," thus making himself one of the first figures of the so-called "sausage emigration." However, he sticks to "Freudian" psychoanalysis (banned in the Soviet Union at the time so it remains unclear how he "practiced" it in Kolpino), considered passé in western medical circles, yet he continues to call himself a "scientist," and ends up doing regular jobs. One of them is an exterminator in a city dump (don't ask) where one of the most hilarious scenes takes place: he is beaten by a bunch of dope-smoking hippies. The counter-cultural element is also presented on screen with lewd dances by a couple of heavyset girls in tights, on a house-of-culture herringbone parquet, and two "rock bands" who sing in mock English; one band looks like an Iron Butterfly caricature with an Elvis impersonator for a front man.

All "foreign" characters on screen behave and speak like common soviet citizens, although the street crowd, for some reason, looks like a stereotype of London City. At one point I even suspected John Cleese in The Ministry of Silly Walks there but the guy turned around. Although this sounds like a Thomas Pynchon plot, the general absurdity of the film layout is unsurpassed in its deadly seriousness. The poor moron ends up raping a suicide-prevention hot-line volunteer from New Zealand, canvassing for an émigré newspaper, and facing the necessity of enlisting in an espionage training school "for journalists." Now he would be only 72, and I sure would like to ask him if he still wants to go home.

The only truth of this flick is that he wants to "have," soviet-style, but is unable to "do" anything, apart from whining, demanding, and making a general fool of himself. The rest is all revolting lies targeted on idiots who can't have the luxury of comparing notes, and seeing for themselves that the commie screen version of the life in the West doesn't correspond to the real picture. It was meant to put fright into those who thought about leaving country at that time. The special poignancy to it gives the fact that in 1972, Joseph Brodsky was mercifully forced to leave the communist pigsty.

There should be a special kind of hell for soviet film-makers, in particular the ever-undead Sergey Mikhalkov, the author of the Soviet (and now Russian) state anthem lyrics who served as the writer in this film.