Mosfilm Goes Hollywood : Now that Moscow’s Mosfilm studio has won independence from the Kremlin, films depicting a darker Soviet past are suddenly possible

In the big, long, gloomy boardroom lined by dark heavy wood, the two Oscars in a glass cabinet catch the eye.

They are meant to. Here at Mosfilm, the world’s largest movie studio, these Oscars have assumed a special significance in the last 18 months. They represent everything Mosfilm is now working toward--international recognition, worldwide audiences and, above all, money from wherever the studio can find it.

Mosfilm, a huge facility on 125 acres in Moscow’s Lenin Hills district, employs approximately 4,500 people. It operates like an efficient factory, and its output is remarkable. From its dilapidated office buildings and its sound stages bathed in a murky half-light, it annually produces 45 to 50 films and a dozen series for Soviet television on an aggregate production budget of $150 million.

Established in 1924, seven years after the Russian Revolution, it has essentially been the film arm of the Soviet Union’s propaganda machine ever since.

This has not prevented fine films being made here--”War and Peace” (1968) and “Dersu Uzala” (1975), which won the Oscars in the glass cabinet (for best foreign film) are just two of them. Mosfilm has been the “motherland” studio to a long line of great Soviet directors, Andrei Tarkovsky and Andrei Konchalovsky being the most recent examples. Still much Mosfilm product over the years has concentrated on glorifying the Communist Party in the eyes of Soviet filmgoers, with scant regard for what the outside world would think.

On April 1, 1989, all that changed.

The advent of President Mikhail Gorbachev, and his policies of glasnost and perestroika , affected the Russian film industry as much as the rest of the country. Filmmakers were suddenly free to express ideas and tackle topics hitherto deemed unmentionable.

“We’ve started to deal with the negative side of our history,” says Vladimir Dostal, sitting down at the head of the boardroom table. Dostal is general director, or studio head, of Mosfilm. He’s also deputy chairman of the state committee on cinematography--a cabinet-level post in Gorbachev’s hierarchy.

“We used to say in our films--prostitution doesn’t exist, drug abuse doesn’t exist. That’s ‘over there,’ in the U.S. And then three years ago, we started telling the truth.”

That was a consequence of Gorbachev’s glasnost policy, and it represented a vastly different way of making films in the Soviet Union. Then last year came a change that has proved equally profound--Mosfilm now has a mandate to forget the old order of total reliance on state and subsidies, and gradually become financially self-reliant by taking its place in a free market economy. A law granting Mosfilm complete autonomy from the state-run film ministry recently was signed by Soviet Prime Minister Nikolai Ryzhkov.

To achieve self-reliance, Mosfilm has been looking to produce some films with worldwide commercial potential. This may sound obvious to Americans, but within the Soviet film community it is, well, revolutionary.

As a first step in this transitional phase, Mosfilm has entered into a number of “joint venture” agreements with foreign film companies that will co-produce films at Mosfilm and on Soviet locations. “This year there are 45 films being made at Mosfilm, and 20 are joint ventures,” says Dostal.

The evidence of this is everywhere at Mosfilm. One hears not only Russian, but English, French and Italian spoken in its corridors. Outside, part of the backlot has been flooded to stage a stunning reconstruction of Venice, complete with canals, bridges, gondolas and fading, elegant waterfront buildings; this is for a movie called “The Siege of Venice,” an Italian co-production with Isabella Rossellini and Tom Conti.

Another film in production at Mosfilm epitomizes the startling new era being entered by the studio. Called “Assassin of the Tsar,” it is part of a joint venture between Mosfilm and a British company, Spectator Entertainment International.

The venture calls for six films (“Assassin of the Tsar” is the second) to be produced over two years. Each film will be shot in English and Russian, and will be distributed both in the West and the Soviet Union.

What makes the Mosfilm-Spectator deal truly extraordinary is the subject matter of the first two films. The first, “Lost in Siberia,” now in post-production, dealt with the hideous reality of daily life in Stalin’s labor camps--the first time this topic has been realistically committed to film in the Soviet Union.

For “Lost in Siberia,” an exact replica of a labor camp was built in the city of Jaroslavl, about 200 miles north of Moscow--complete with barbed wire, high wooden walls and towers armed with guns. Says its director, Alexander Mitta: “They had to make an announcement on the radio to tell people that it wasn’t a real camp being built.”

The movie stars British actor Anthony Andrews (from TV’s “Brideshead Revisited”) as a British scientist working in Iran close to the Soviet border in the late 1940s. He is captured by the KGB, accused of being a spy and thrown into a camp in Siberia. Mitta used 15 consultants on the film, all of whom had spent a minimum of 10 years inside a camp, (as had an aunt who raised him). “It is a story,” he says simply, “about the circumstances of slavery.”

“Assassin of the Tsar” also boasts a British star, Malcolm McDowell (best known for “A Clockwork Orange”), as well as Oleg Jankovsky, arguably the Soviet Union’s most prominent movie actor. McDowell plays a schizophrenic patient in a contemporary mental asylum who believes he is Yurovsky, the man who killed Tsar Nicholas II and his family in 1918, after the Russian Revolution. Jankovsky is the doctor assigned to cure him. In a series of flashbacks, the killing of Nicholas and his family, including his young children, is portrayed in bloody detail.

“It would have been impossible to make this film here four or five years ago,” says Dostal, speaking through an interpreter. “Even the mention of the word tsar would have stopped it.”

But even more astonishing are the views of the film’s director, Karen Shakhnazarov, who has grave misgivings about the origin of the Russian Revolution. “The tsars were executed without any attempt to make it legitimate,” he says. “In 1918, no one was very concerned about what happened to them (the royal family).

“And now it’s like a burden on the shoulders of the Russian people. They need some way to put this story into (the context of) contemporary life. Because the revolution was an attempt to build a paradise on the blood of children. And you can’t. It goes back to what Dostoevsky once said: Try to build a beautiful building on the tears of one, it’s impossible.”

Shakhnazarov added that it became possible to write a script for “Assassin of the Tsar” last year, when the government opened official archives and documents dealing with the tsar’s family. “There was a report by Yurovsky, who described all the details of the execution,” he said. “There is a voice-over in the film taken directly from his report. Historically we are very authentic.”

Although some reports and rumors insisted that Anastasia, one of Nicholas II’s daughters, survived the executions and escaped, Shakhnazarov says historical facts do not support such a theory.

Given his views about the origins of the communist revolution in his country, what kind of films had Shakhnazarov made before the glasnost era? “Comedies,” he shrugged. “Comedies and musicals.”

“Assassin of the Tsar” and “Lost in Siberia” are relatively low-budget films (approximately $7.3 million) in which Mosfilm has not invested heavily; about $300,000 for “Assassin” and only the use of services and facilities for “Siberia.” Even if they make big profits internationally, Mosfilm will not share much of them and will achieve little in its move toward self-sufficiency.

The same is true of a U.S. Mosfilm production, called “Icons,” which is now shooting at the studio. It’s the story of a young American (Frank Whaley, soon to appear in Oliver Stone’s movie about the Doors) who visits Moscow, and on his last night gets involved with a young woman (Natalya Negoda, star of “Littel Vera”) who has stolen an icon. Together, they are pursued around Moscow, and they encounter its seamier side. Intriguingly, film director Roman Polanski, in self-imposed exile from the United States since becoming involved in a morals case, also is in the cast.

The film is being made by Largo Entertainment. Executive producer Lou Stroller said that “Icons” was the first U.S. film to be shot entirely in the Soviet Union.

“We (Largo) are putting up all the money,” added Stroller, “and Mosfilm have been hired for their facilities and services. We’re still working on a budget, but it should be between $5 million and $7.5 million.”

To make a comparable film in the United States, he estimated, would cost at least $12 million. “I’ve had offices at Fox and Universal for some time, and to be honest, Mosfilm didn’t mean anything to me. I came here on a scouting trip because I was very dubious about coming here. Russia was our enemy--we were told that for years. But the people are great, we’re living well, we’re eating well.

“When I came to Mosfilm, I was flabbergasted. They have over 120 acres and the facilities to do a lot of things.”

Stroller also likes the way Mosfilm is run. “At Universal, I’ve met Lew Wasserman, but if I have a problem, I can’t pick up the phone and talk to him. Here I pick up the phone and I do talk to Vladimir Dostal. And things get done.”

Cheapness is a major factor in shooting here, Stroller conceded. “I produced ‘Sea of Love’ and ‘A New Life’ in Toronto, because it was advantageous to do so. I made a film in London when it was advantageous to do so. Now, you have to be someone like Spielberg to say, ‘Oh, I think I’ll make my film in London.’ Otherwise you don’t, because of what the dollar is worth there. Now I’m here, because Americans will go anywhere to make movies.”

He added that Russia held a fascination for many American directors, actors and crew members because they had ancestral roots in the country. “There’s an intrigue about it,” he said. “Right now, it feels like opening up virgin territory. It hasn’t been explored.” He giggled. “Or exploited.”

Stroller was largely persuaded to film in the Soviet Union by Anatoly Fradis, a former Mosfilm executive who now runs AFRA Film Enterprises, a Beverly Hills-based company that represents Mosfilm in the United States, Canada and the Far East.

Fradis, who was visiting Mosfilm to ensure that “Icons” started production smoothly, said his job was to persuade American studios or production companies to make films in the Soviet Union.

From his four-man office on Wilshire Boulevard, Fradis arranges meetings with independent producers and studio production heads to extol the virtues of his homeland.

“You have to convince them that the Soviet Union is not as disastrous as they think,” he said. “They have to believe that you can have normal working conditions here, that you can find your way around, and have decent hotels and food. But it’s a big gap between California and Moscow--89 degrees to 42 degrees, for a start. It takes a lot of publicity and advertising to promote (Mosfilm), to show the sound stages and recording studios. It’s not easy to convince people.”

For its part, Mosfilm was starting to gear its operations toward future co-productions. Dostal, said Fradis, was negotiating with the Hilton hotel chain to build a luxury hotel near the studio.

“ ‘Icons,’ ” he added, is “a first experience. If it’s successful, we’ll be able to bring in more co-productions.” He admitted pulling strings at Mosfilm to ensure “Icons” was given sound stage space at short notice after the deal was struck.

“I believe ‘Icons’ is more important than “Lost in Siberia” and “Assassin of the Tsar,” Fradis added. “This film can bring a lot of U.S. money and producers into this country.”

The new freedoms now being given to Soviet filmmakers induce a heady sense of excitement. They acknowledge they now have unparalleled scope to make films the way they want. But they also sense a price must be paid for such freedoms.

“Lost in Siberia” director Alexander Mitta, for one, has a sense of unease about the number of co-productions originating from other countries that now involve Mosfilm.

“We (Russians) feel like foreigners,” he says. But he is also realistic: “It’s a fact of life, it’s additional money for technology for the creation of films.” The glasnost era has also seen American films hitting Soviet movie theaters in a rush; Dostal estimates that of Moscow’s 125 theaters, 60% are showing American films.

Despite his misgivings, Mitta has already been a beneficiary of co-productions. He admitted that “Lost in Siberia” was turned down by Mosfilm as a possible domestic film: “I wanted to build a camp,” he recalls, “and they said, no one is interested in camps.” But when the British Spectator group invested money and were seen to be serious, Mosfilm decided to cooperate.

For his part, Shakhnazarov seems pleased as the new era of co-production with other countries. He also points out that the Gorbachev era has seen many directors who once worked regularly no longer being invited to make films. These party hacks, said Shakhnazarov, “got a university certified which gave you the right to make films. Nowadays that means nothing. Their professional level was too low.”

Oleg Jankovsky, a mid-40s actor with a piercing gaze, feels no ambivalence about co-productions. “Our acting theory is very good,” he said, noting the Russian acting teacher Stanislavsky’s influence, “but Russian actors are not known in the world. We can’t go to the world screen ourselves because we don’t have the hard currency. So co-productions with foreign (companies) can give us the money, and we shouldn’t be ashamed of it.”

Still, Jankovsky harbors no expectations of becoming an international film star just because American are shooting in his homeland. “We’re all governed by God,” he shrugs, “and maybe one day Spielberg will be interested in Russian history, come up to me and ask me to star in a film. But I’m not sure.”

Would he want to be a Hollywood leading man? After all, Jankovsky is a classically trained theatrical actor. Would he feel comfortable in Hollywood movies, long on car crashes?

He grinned slyly. “Yes, I would I like that very much.”

The money would help. Jankovsky, like all Soviet actors, is paid modestly. (He declined to state his exact salary.) “But I would not like to have Stallone’s destiny,” he added with a twinkle. “Although he is famous and popular and earns $11 million for a film, I don’t think he is a good actor or artist. I wouldn’t like to be used that way.

“But I respect Hoffman, Nicholson, DeNiro and Pacino. I might not want Stallone’s $11 million, but Hoffman’s $6 million would do,” Jankovsky said, deadpan. “The $5 million lacking would be compensated by the audience’s respect.”

Malcolm McDowell rates Soviet actors high and finds them thorough and professional. “Film making is slower here,” he noted. “But that’s because there are no deadlines. We can make this film in five or six months, eight or 10, and who cares? It’s not a market economy yet. If an actor falls sick, they just stop. In the West, if you’re sick, you go in and work. It’s just a different mentality.”

McDowell did concede that the Russians were hard to motivate. “They get paid such a pittance,” he said, “that loyalty to the project can only take you so far.”

Despite the enthusiasm at Mosfilm, it is hard to see Soviet cinema spreading its wings just yet and becoming a major force in international film. In part, this is due to the state of the Soviet economy.

Can the Soviets even afford to go to the movies when times are so hard? “We only have four TV channels,” says Vladimir Dostal, “and there’s no place to go. That is why Soviet filmmaking has to be commercial and interesting. We have to attract people to cinema as a primary form of recreation.”

Dostal noted that a Mosfilm documentary released in theaters, called “You Can’t Live Like That,” had drawn long lines; tickets sold on the black market for 15 rubles (about 25 cents); the normal price is up to two rubles (three cents).

“It was about the way of life in the Soviet Union. President Gorbachev was impressed by it, and praised it. He thought it proved there were big audiences for the right films. “Culture is a (low priority) in the state budget,” he said. But there have been periods before when we’ve been optimistic, and stepped back. Today in film we’re at our most optimistic ever.”

Mitta acknowledges that life in the Soviet Union is hard: “There’s more drama in real life today than in our film stories,” he complains.

But he’s also reveling in the freedom of a new era: “In film, we have the chance to express things no one else has expressed. We’re on the verge of a Klondike.”