Mikhalkov May Have Had His Reasons for Disagreement, but He Now Seems to Be Taking His Battle Too Far

Having reacquired the Cinematographers’ Union chairmanship, film director Nikita Mikhalkov seems to have begun taking revenge on his enemies. All of the sudden, film critic Viktor Mattizen, director Marlen Khutsiev, as well as some others in opposition to Mikhalkov, encountered all kinds of work-related problems. The question now is what the driving force behind Mikhalkov’s witch hunt really is: the desire to finish off those who dared to go against him, a demonstration of power meant as a warning for others, or simply a fear of being left out?  

First the country witnessed the Congress of Cinematographers in all of its monumental beauty. It looked as though film director Nikita Mikhalkov has decided to employ the “reverse picturization” technique—a kind of reverse perspective, when instead of taking life to the screen, he projected the screen onto life.

Then it became known that one of Nikita Sergeevich’s opponents, a film critic and the director of the corresponding guild Viktor Mattizen, has been expelled from his union as a renegade, a schismatic, and a wicked person in general.

Then came Marlen Khutsiev’s turn, the legendary director who instigated the conflict, and who, despite being a department chairman at the All Russian State Institute of Cinematography (VGIK), did not make it to the board of the renewed academic council. Which is contradictory by definition. And this contradiction can be eliminated in a single possible way—by firing Khutsiev. The bewildered public was calmly told that the author of “I Am Twenty” rarely shows up at work. This is, in essence, unacceptable, and does not conform to the labor law code. Formally speaking, this is true—it does not conform to the labor law code. But, first of all, VGIK is not your average higher education institution: in a creative educational establishment it is customary to keep famous masters on staff for years without overloading them with work, so that they can keep in tune with the students and set up workshops where they will hold irregular master classes alternating with regular assistants, at the first opportune moment. But secondly and most importantly, until he tried to lead the Cinematographers Union Khutsiev could very well not to show up at the department. As soon as he tried to, he became a loafer. Never mind his respectable age.

Even if someone still had doubts about the clarity and purposefulness of “the artillery strikes its own” actions, all illusions were dispelled in a week. The staff of the main cinema magazine, Isskustvo Kino, received notification of the fact that their office rental contract expired on June 1, and that they should clear out immediately, because the Cinematographers’ Union is not willing to prolong the lease. The move-out date was later postponed by a few days, but they will have to move out nonetheless. Just like the legendary cinema museum once had to vacate its premises in the Cinema Center building. Should it even be mentioned that this magazine is led by the chairman’s adversary, Daniil Dondurey? And that it is always unprofitable to rent out space to specialized magazines, as opposed to tour agencies, wholesale dealers or intermediary firms?

It would seem that the reason for creative organizations to exist would be to create. So that films can be made and magazines can get published. Now it turns out that this rule has exceptions. Sure, if the chief editors of these publications are personally loyal to the Sovereign. But not if they play by their own rules. Everything to friends, law to the enemies.

At the same time Nikita Mikhalkov became a member of the film council that has been formed at the whim of the prime minister. In reality this means that he will directly partake in the distribution of sizeable grants that have been set aside not only to support Russian cinematography, but also so that ambitious projects can be implemented. Most of the observers agree that Nikita Sergeevich is severing heads so that in the future nobody would dare to cross his boyar path toward Hollywood-sized budgets. It’s not like the film critic Mattizen or the sociologist Dondurey wanted to make a global film and bite off a piece of Mikhalkov’s pie, and it’s not like Khutsiev himself could lay claim to a robust grant. But any potential contender will draw the right conclusion in advance, and will behave accordingly.

It’s possible that this is how it is. It’s possible that we are witnessing a battle for influence, with a sweeping takeover of the decision making mechanisms, both financial and artistic. Not only for thyself, but also for those who will kiss thy hand, or just won’t say anything. The first thing that Mikhalkov did when he returned to the nearly-lost throne of the union’s chairman was to knock out the necessary support for that same VGIK, where they are still learning to make movies with outdated, Soviet equipment. He got it without asking for anything in return, directly. Why ask? First of all, smart people will get the idea anyway. Secondly, not everything should be done for profit.

But it could also happen that this isn’t just about money, influence or authority, but about ardent, nearly demonic passion that burns to ashes and desiccates. What? You went against me? By me? Over my head? Then there is no place for you under the cinematic sun, especially since this sun is artificial and decorative, and can easily be unplugged. One—and there is no Mattizen. Just like the former teammate and coauthor Ibragimbekov has been missing for a long time. Two—and Khutsiev has been shut out. Three—and Dondurey has been cut off from the power line. You can’t make an omelet without breaking some eggs.  

One can have any kind of attitude toward the affairs of the Cinematographers’ Union. You can sympathize with anyone and take anyone’s side. It is possible that in his fight with his colleagues Nikita Mikhalkov has his reasons, as did his opponents. But now the issue is something else. Why behave this way after you’ve won? Is this a sign of strength, or a sign of weakness? A sign of stability or one of self-decomposition? We don’t know the answer. We only know that now it will be easy for one director, once great and nearly legendary, to make a film about the ailing Joseph Stalin or about Ivan the Terrible after the Oprichnina. When the leaders who have eradicated both the godly and the humane from their souls finally lost themselves, and became pitiful despite all of their worldly grandeur.