Odesa's Film Legacy: Valeriy Puzik on Culture, Identity, and Change

Odesa of the 20s and 30s, which was passionate about the film industry, is not a new trend. However, it is something that has just begun to be discussed in public, as opposed to Russian myths. Valeriy Puzik, a writer, screenwriter, director, and military officer, told us how he was interested in the period of Dovzhenko and Yanovsky in Odesa before moving here. We talked about life after the collapse of the Soviet Union, his involvement in Russian culture, and the modern city and society. Watch the full interview and read the abridged version of the exclusive interview about growing up in the 90s, Odesa beyond the myths of Pushkin and Babel, cultural institutions, and the Maidan.

Last year you made the following comment: "Unity is every day of our lives without a clear reference to dates, from the realization of ourselves as Ukrainians to the struggle for identity." We often talk about these aspects now, but we don't always understand their meaning. Using your example, when or how did you realize yourself as a Ukrainian?

I think it was from my childhood. Because I grew up in a Ukrainian-speaking family, everyone around me spoke Ukrainian. It was Podillia, Starosyniavsky district. The first time I heard the Russian language live was when I was about 16 years old. Right on a very large scale. People who lived in Kyiv and Odesa would come and speak Russian. There were some isolated cases, but Russian culture was in the minority.

When I started to become interested in literature, I began to think that I should write in Russian because most of the books I read were in Russian. Again, it was King that I read. It seemed to me that it was right to write in Russian. I lived in this cultural field. In particular, perhaps more so in Moscow, because there were theaters there, I followed them, and a new drama was being formed. It was very interesting to me. I looked for performances on the Internet. Then, unfortunately, I became very interested in the prose of Zakhar Prilepin, who later became one of the ideologues. This was all before 2012.

When I was living in Moscow for about a year and a half, I think it was just before the Maidan, I realized that I didn't want to go back and live in the Russian field. I had a characteristic accent. People who heard me on the streets or at work would ask if I was a Banderite.

But there was a period when I wrote entirely in Russian, probably for two years, when I was studying to become an art designer in Khmelnytsky. It didn't work out. It was a case of youthful maximalism, when you don't succeed, and you want to have a book published when you are 18.

Lubko Deresh came out, and he was called a genius at the age of 18. And it's kind of like a race - you have to, you have to, you have to, you have to. But fortunately, my first book came out in 2018, and if I started writing in 2002, it was 16 years later. I think I was lucky that I published my first book as a fully formed author. It was published in Ukrainian.

Most of us were brought up by parents who had lived through the experience of the Soviet Union. Share some memories from your childhood. Did anyone discuss with you whether you understood what the Soviet Union was or how it collapsed, what kind of literature you read during this period?

I did not understand, actually. I didn't understand for a very long time, because somewhere around the fifth grade I had a map of the Soviet Union hanging over my bed. Apparently, I lived in some kind of Soviet plane. It was a small village where, in principle, nothing happens. Every day is a groundhog day that repeats itself, and you live conventionally, from harvest to harvest, from summer to summer.

Photo: Intent/Natalia Dovbysh

I remember very well the moment when my grandmother had a church calendar that ended in '99, and I thought that it was the end of the world. That the calendar was over and that was it. I recall that time with a kind of nostalgia, because it is a kind of time capsule on the ruins of the Soviet empire. For people whose childhood was in the 90s, it was a state of uncertainty. You don't know what's going to happen. You live only from apples to apples, from summer to summer, from September 1 to September 1.

We see the disadvantages of Odesa, we talk about them a lot. However, you dream about the Odesa Film Studio and stay here to live. So I understand that there are some positive aspects for you in this city. What are they?

Before that, I lived in Khmelnytsky, Kyiv and Moscow. So I had an understanding of what a big city is. I even had a certain idea of what Odesa was. Because I read a lot of literature about cinema for a very long time. Usually, when I think back, in my mind, Odesa is a city of cinema. It is the All-Ukrainian Photo and Film Administration, Dovzhenko, Yanovsky, Semenko, Tiutiunyk-the people who raised Ukrainian national cinema in the 20s and 30s.

In the books I bought, usually for 2-3 hryvnias, it was clearly seen that they made pro-Ukrainian films. They were broken by the system. Some broke down, some didn't, and some became agents who wrote denunciations against everyone. But this is my Odesa.

Speaking of a myth, when I arrived in 2015, I couldn't understand why there were so many Pushkin's and why there was such an emphasis on him. Why Babel, why Bunin? It was a disappointment for me. Then I saw the Odesa Film Studio and the state it was in. It was just like this hand-face meme. I thought what was wrong with this city.

There are so many prospects here. If we conditionally abandon the pro-Russian lines of myth-making, the region itself is very powerful. It used to be and still is that people who could create something big and cool in Odesa usually had to go to Kyiv or abroad. The galaxy of directors who could make their films, who go to Cannes and major festivals, win awards, make their productions. In order to develop, you have to leave Odesa.

The city itself seems to me to be built not to create a product, to reflect on itself. It's built more, and maybe I'm wrong, on receiving. That someone will come, someone will pay money, and films will be made. It's a kind of line that people come to us and we feel good.

How do you react to the processes of decolonization in Odesa?

It seems to me that as long as Pushkin stands on Prymorskyi Boulevard, as long as this line exists, culture in Odesa will develop in this way or, most likely, not develop. Speaking about Odesa as a multinational city, I have a little bit of a misunderstanding why the dominant culture and myth-making in general is pro-Russian.

When you speak Ukrainian, people say they don't understand you. Well, that was until 2022. If we are a multinational city, we need to have some clear acceptance of otherness. I really liked the thesis, I don't remember whose, that Odesa now is a cult of a Soviet person who misses his past and the Odesa that was somewhere in the late 18th and 19th centuries. That Odesa is gone. And this Sovietness does not allow us to move on.

I'm not saying that, for example, Pushkin should be overthrown or beaten up-it just needs to be taken down, even to the same museum. But it's not right to say that he is a great poet. I'm just not interested in him, I don't know why I'm talking about him so much now.

Are there any state institutions that you would trust at the moment?

This is a very difficult question. Probably not. There used to be the State Film Agency, when Pylyp Ilyenko was still in charge. It seems to me that the development of Ukrainian cinema was on the rise then. There were transparent conditions for competitions, give or take. The further we go, the less trust there is. This also applies to the book industry.

Photo: Intent/Natalia Dovbysh

It seems to me that if we talk about Odesa, there is no large cluster of cultural institutions that could unite all this and give impetus to independent theaters to make exhibition activities happen. I don't want to diminish the merits of people or other creative groups, of which there are plenty in the city. All this needs to be united in the future into one powerful institution with different venues. But in order to do this, we need the support of government institutions, because it won't last long and won't go far on our own enthusiasm. This should be a strategic level of culture, and there is an operational, tactical, and strategic level. And while at the operational level poets, writers, and musicians create their own content, to reach the strategic level, you need resources.

Roytburd almost managed to do it if they hadn't put sticks in his car or bicycle. I watched it all and it was very cool. I don't know what condition it's in now, but it seems like this bike or motorcycle is running on old yeast and rolling along just fine. But again, this is my subjective opinion.

Марія Литянська