A Jewish Film Festival in Moscow
By
Barbara Shulgasser
(cont'd from page 2)--
The idea for bringing the festival to Moscow first struck the co-directors
of the San Francisco Jewish Film Festival after they showed Alexander
Askoldov’s COMMISSAR in 1988. The 1967 film, favorably depicting a Jewish
family, had been shelved by the Soviet government for twenty years until
interest from another festival, the San Francisco International Film
Festival, helped release it.
Kaufman and Plotkin enlisted the help of Michael Gamburg, a Latvian
who emigrated to the United States 16 years ago. He made crucial connections
that eventually led to the involvement and sponsorship of ASK, an association
necessary for handling the logistics from the Russian side. His film
company, Spilny-Gamburg Productions, is awaiting word on the possibility
of co-producing films in Russia with Russian filmmakers.
But the first contacts were made in 1988 when then-Board President Alan
Snitow, a news producer for San Francisco’s KTVU-TV, visited the Soviet
Union for a meeting of the Cinematographers Union. He mentioned to the
acting head, Andrei Smirnov, that he dreamed of bringing the festival
to Moscow.
He gave me a beatific smile,” Snitow recalled, “and responded with a
certain amount of disbelief.”
So did several filmmakers who were contacted by Kaufman and Plotkin
about lending their films. Steven Brand, the New York director of the
1984 documentary KADDISH, was incredulous.
“Have they seen the film?” he asked. KADDISH includes scenes of an American
protesting in Moscow against the government’s anti-Semitic emigration
policies. (That scene was cheered by the Moscow audience, too.) “I was
thrilled that they wanted to show it,” said Brand.
His enthusiasm was typical of the 22 filmmakers who came to Moscow.
Even the bleak landscape in Moscow, where buildings are not lit up at
night and drivers do not always use their headlights could not diffuse
the filmmakers’ collective high spirits. Many viewed the hardships of
the trip as a reminder of the luxury and freedom they had waiting for
them at home. Polish exile Holland, who remained in Paris since she
was stuck there after the imposition of martial law 12 years ago in
Poland, agreed that Moscow was depressing. “Yes, for us just for a week.
For them,“ she shrugged, “forever.”
The foreverness seems to have beaten down the Muscovites irrevocably.
Some say widespread shortages they suffered were deliberately imposed
by manufacturers who did well under the old regime to challenge the
changes President Mikhail Gorbachev struggled to implement.
“This is how they make life so exciting here,” Michael Gamburg explained.
“First, they take everything away from you and then, when they bring
it back, everyone is so grateful. It’s not like the U.S. where you’re
so blasé because you have everything you need. Here they keep you entertained.”
Little else falls into the entertainment category in Russia. Apart from
vodka and going to the movies (tickets then were about twelve cents),
affordable diversion is scarce. Perhaps waiting on line outside a shoe
store or on one that winds around the new McDonald’s serves as a substitute
for fun. Still one wonders: where do they find the time to wait? Why
aren’t these people working?
“Why are they so surly?” asked Manya Starr, indignant after an unsatisfying
encounter with a waitress. She is the producer of ISAAC IN AMERICA,
a documentary about the Nobel Prize-winning writer Isaac Bashevis Singer.
“I will tell you why,” said Misha Bogin, the wide-eyed director of A
Private Life, and a Muscovite who left his country fifteen years ago
to settle in New York. “They make seventy rubles a month. That’s forty
five dollars. There’s no reason to work hard. And if they do work hard,
there’s nothing to buy.”
Festival participants were cautioned not to be too daring in their financial
dealings, especially with black marketeers. Six rubles to the dollar
was the official rate. Gamburg, speaking from his experience as a native,
warned, “The exchange rate is not the issue.” He explained that KGB
agents are on the lookout for foreigners making illegal transactions.
“Maybe you can get twenty-to-one,” he commented helpfully, “but maybe
you’ll stay here a long time.”
As for the people who work at the Rossiya Hotel, where the festival
participants stayed, no one seemed to know how to do their job.
When the foreigners arrived at the huge hotel–capacity 6,000–nothing
the ASK officials did could hasten the speed at which the Rossiya customarily
did business. The process of assigning rooms to the group took from
11:30 p.m. until three o’clock that morning. Well-traveled Berkeleyite
Janet Kranzberg sighed, “Even Nicaragua was more organized than this.”
The Russian approach to procrastination shows them off at their most
sophisticated. If a task gets done at all it is as if by accident. This
is why natives constantly refer to Russia as “the country of miracles.”
If something actually happens, it’s a miracle.
For example, the ASK interpreters led bus tours of Moscow sights every
day. One day Janis Plotkin was waiting with a large gathering in the
lobby for their 2 p.m. departure. At 2 p.m. Plotkin started looking
around, wondering what was holding up the trip. At 2:05, still no movement.
At 2:10, she turned to the ASK interpreter and said, “What are we waiting
for?” He looked at her blithely and replied, “Orders.”
“All right,” Plotkin said evenly to the translator. “Let’s go,” and
the group herded into the bus.
Another guest said she went looking for a waitress at breakfast one
morning. She found several of them in a back room braiding each others’
hair. “They were annoyed that I disturbed them,” she said.
This is why the average guest will probably be puzzled by the brochure
in each room that extols the hotel’s services.
Written in gaga English, the prose was decidedly more welcoming than
any actual service it described: “Dear Guests! If you wish to have a
pleasant relaxation, the doors of Moscow theatres, cinema-concert halls,
clubs, cafes and restaurants are always open for you.” True, but the
reservation made for you will not necessarily be for the day you requested.
One couple in the festival group arrived at the Bolshoi Theatre on Friday
to be informed by an usher that their tickets were for the preceding
Thursday. They were not alone.
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