Vai viegli but jaunam?

The body of work of Juris Podnieks lends itself to superlatives that often sound too good to be true. His accidental death at the age of 42 deprived Latvian film of an incredible talent who would have been entering the prime of this career. His skill and talent combined to make a filmmaker who would be considered great not only in the context of Latvian film, but by any global cinematic standards. This is made even more extraordinary when taken in the context of where and when he made his films. Working under Soviet rule as a documentarian, a genre that demands clarity and truth under a government that provided neither, he managed to make singular films that withstand the test of time. Perhaps no other film exemplifies this better than "Vai Viegli But Jaunam?" (Is it Easy to be Young?). Released in 1986 the film played to packed houses across the Soviet Union and to critical accolades in the West. The film opens with rock concert footage spliced with coverage of the trial of several youths who were charged with the vandalism of a train at the conclusion of that concert. Podnieks contrasts the exuberance and implied rebel spirit of the concert with shots of the accused standing uncomfortably before those who would judge them. There is no question how this trial will turn out. It's a forgone conclusion. They don't stand a chance before these authoritarian figures who deliver the "facts" without passion or emotion and with an unwavering conviction of their "right" and "righteousness." The accused don't even attempt to defend themselves, not as an admission of guilt, but with a hopeless resignation to their fate. The only one of them to even attempt to raise a defense is eventually sentenced to several years of hard labor. And so starts the exploration of whether it is easy to be young. Podnieks presents a variety of subjects in various settings providing us with a wide cross section of youths from various walks of life and divergent destinations. He creates a snapshot of time which not only captures the difficulties of growing up, but also of the Soviet Union as it was beginning to unravel under its own banality, hypocrisy and utter disregard for humanity. We meet an eager Krishna who seems to be rebelling against what he perceives as a corrupt society, but who does so by replacing one form of blind allegiance with another. Down with Lenin Up with Hari! We meet a young punk who is exceptionally articulate, intelligent and informed, but for all of that can't see beyond his own fatalistic nihilism. There's a young girl who failed in her suicide attempt being browbeaten by those who are supposed to cure her and a first time filmmaker who isn't sure of what he wants to say but knows that he needs to say something. All of them will seem familiar to those of us who can remember entering adulthood regardless of where and when we did so. But perhaps the most poignant moment in the film is the before and after interviews with young conscripts who were sent to Afghanistan. The contrasts are as shocking as those of the most cynical and broken combat veterans as seen in any documentary about war and its consequences. Watching a young veteran walking through a city filled with people on whose behalf he had believed to be fighting and in defense of a system and ideals that he no longer can share is as powerful of an image as I've seen on film. Podnieks greatest strength is in getting these individuals to reveal so much of their selves. We get the feeling as if we are sitting in on a late night conversation between friends where they let down their guard and reveal their true selves and feelings. Even more extraordinary is that Podnieks got them to do so in a time and a place where public introspection of this kind often had severe consequences. A place where thinking the wrong thing was considered to be as bad, if not more so, as doing the wrong thing. The film's greatest strength is in the way that it shows what it means to "grow up," and answering the title question with: It never is, nor should it ever be.

This is a rare document of how live in the Soviet Union seemed to be set in stone even on the onset of Perestroika, and even more so after the core meltdown at Chernobyl and during the climax of the Russia-Afghanistan War. It was called the Cold War and the Iron Curtain for a reason. The film starts with the aftermath when a bunch of incredibly tame-looking youths are charged with wrecking a train car after a concert, and get handed down sentences of over three years. Then there are bona fide punks rummaging through Soviet Riga, being disgruntled, snarling and up to no good, just like in my neck of the woods back then. Auteur Juris Podnieks talks to them all, the rebels, the squares and the thieving ballerinas, all of this accompanied to a very bad soundtrack indeed. It made an enormous impression back then, all the more so as this was somehow, mysteriously the Soviet Union but not Russia. The same train cars of Latvia are doing fine, by the way, the same stock is still operational in 2019. Only the rebels have grown old and grey.