The way in which Russians as Europeans are detected is in the relationship that Kolya forms with Nicole.31 Recalling the postcolonial syncretism from the introduction, this love affair is the clearest example of the Russian abroad engaging with the foreigner on an entirely voluntary basis. Thus, Window to Paris exemplifies the case for the postcolonial alignment of representations. Kolya and Nicole are viewed as equal and there is no unevenness in their relationship. This is the basis of the love story where emotions are governing, rather than nationality and differences. However, it is necessary to point out that the portrayal arises from the self-representational mode and hence carries images that speak to home audiences. It is no coincidence, then, that
it is a Russian male that attracts the foreign female. This can be seen as the
continuation of the conquest of the female Other as detected in the previous chapter with Danila Bagrov’s affair with Lisa Jeffreys. The difference is that where Danila’s endeavour was motivated by supremacy, Kolya’s is motivated by similarity; the love of two people knows no borders, national or cultural. Yana Hashamova asserts that
the construction and unfolding of these Russian-western love and sexual relationships mirror challenges to the Russian national identity during the transition period in that they inevitably become entangled in the
(gendered) desire of the Russian national identity for masculine dominance in the relationship (Hashamova 2006, 84).
What Hashamova is pointing out is the fact that often the relationship is that of the Russian male, who asserts his presence to the foreign female, who on the other hand has to submit to the Russian.32 Since this is within the self-representation mode of production, i.e. Russian cinema, it should not come as a surprise to us. What should be picked up, though, is the fact that Kolya’s representation is different to Danila’s, and that the gender relationships in the self-representational mode are different to representation by the Other, which will be dealt with in the analysis of the films Last Resort and Lilja 4-ever.
This should frame Kolya’s and Nicole’s relationship as one of perceived sharing and mutual understanding, where the Russian male engages with the female Other.
32 One divergence from this trend is the Russian film Frantsuz/The Frenchman (Vera Storozheva,
2004), where a Frenchman falls in love with a Russian female. However, this film is in line with Russian cinema’s fascination with the foreigner in Russia and his/her inability to comprehend, but affection for, the Russian soul. In this regard there is no better example that Mikhalkov’s Ochi
chernye/Dark Eyes (1986). The Frenchman is one of the films that Yana Hashamova focuses on, saying that it “emerges as a new beginning – a beginning which offers more chances for understanding and love between foreigners and Russians.” See Yana Hashamova, Pride and Panic, Russian Imaging of the West in Post-Soviet Russian Cinema (Bristol & New York: Intellect, 2006), p 94. Although a fairytale Cinderella story, what is interesting in The Frenchman is the fact that the Russian woman leaves Russia in the end without connotations of treason to the national cause.
Part 1: Russian Cinema
Chapter 4: Russians Abroad in Comedies
Hashamova points out that Kolya once “rescues” Nicole from imprisonment (Hashamova 2006, 86), which again points to the struggle for superiority in the postcolonial paradigm. However, this happens when Nicole is in Russia, having travelled through the window in pursuit of the Gorokhovs. Thus, Kolya’s saving ability is functioning not abroad but at home. Instead, the film makes a reversal of the save-the-Russian-prostitute narrative, because once Nicole enters the backyard in St Petersburg, she is associated with prostitution. On the wall beside that door that she comes out of is the graffiti ‘Khyi’ (cock) and the Russian Babushka, who takes her in, strips her of her clothes and gets her drunk, meaning to ‘sell’ her for prostitution. This is what Kolya’s saving act is about – the exploitation of the Western woman. Implicit in the image is, of course, the same Russian self-assertion, as with Brother 2, that Russians can/should be considered among equals, as part of First World Europe. The relationship does not last. Kolya has to return to Russia with his children, but for Nicole the Russian way of life has already been tried and tested with acrimonious results and so she stays in Paris, waving goodbye to Kolya at the airport. Kolya gives up love and a life abroad for the return home, sacrificing himself for the betterment of his country.
As for Kolya’s return home, Natasha Zhuravkina recognises the dilemma in which he stands, but underlines the homecoming as lifting “the film out of the mire of
sordidness and lost hopes.” And she continues, “perhaps, if [Kolya and the children] make a joint effort theirs is the ship that will sail into the future. Many of today’s people are doomed to remain grounded” (Zhuravkina 1999, 109). A salient convention in the Russian ‘going abroad’ comedy is the return home, but Mamin
makes the offer of migration tangible by taking it seriously. Kolya’s dreams, then, speak about real fears of migration, but also about real possibilities of economic migration. Kolya’s own return home to Russia stems more from the conventions of the comedy genre and is less about a nationalistic message. When Kolya dreams of being down and out in Paris, he is actually identifying a present discourse concerning economic migration that has occurred since the fall of the Soviet Union. It
concentrates on economic migration and prostitution as the main reasons for post- Soviet Russians to travel abroad. This makes Window to Paris correspond with a post-Soviet reality, but at the same time satirises this given reality. When asked about the everyday life spilling over into his films, Mamin replies,
Sure. For example my wife returned home saying: ‘You know what I have just seen? A quiet man walked in front of me. Suddenly he attacked a telephone booth, smashing it completely in a minute. Hatred poured out of him – and then he just walked on.’ End of story. We inserted it in Window to Paris – a central scene in the film – and the booth smashing became a portrait of an era, of the 1990s (Malyukova 2005).
Mamin’s reply illustrates that post-Soviet Russian satire has continued to incorporate the real into the films and if successful, as Window to Paris is, then the comedy confirms the mood of the time in which it emerges.
Conclusion
Returning to Christina Stojanova’s criticism of the co-production. Stojanova has written,
it cannot be otherwise, [because] these productions are expected to adapt trendy Western ideas to the radically different social mores and cultural climate in post-Communist countries. And the chances for a flop are much higher than for a success. It is enough to mention Y. Mamin's film
Window in Paris (1995) and S. Bodrov' s The Russians (1992) as evidence of cultural incompatibility (Stojanova 1999).
Part 1: Russian Cinema
Chapter 4: Russians Abroad in Comedies
While taking Stojanova’s view into consideration, this investigation rather shows that Mamin’s film is a successful co-production. Not because it manages to fuse two contexts, or apply a trendy Western idea, but because it forcefully speaks about real concerns and possibilities which were on the minds of its viewers. It has managed to deliver a discourse on migration that was on many people’s lips in the early 1990s and that still bears evidence to a troubled time when spirits were high and the future looked bright after the turbulent period of Glasnost and Perestroika. It is a testimony to the film’s durability that it is still talked about as capturing the mood of the time, e.g. when Mamin is interviewed for Novaya Gazeta (Malyukova 2005). This makes Window to Paris a perfect film to analyse with regard to the representation of
Russians abroad, because the Russians abroad here constitute an important element in the migration discourse with the added convention of always returning home.
Stojanova’s quotation above will also serve nicely for crossing over into the next chapter. Not only does it introduce the issues of co-productions that will be dealt with next, but also the filmmaker that will be examined, Sergei Bodrov. However, where the study disagrees with Stojanova on Window to Paris, it does agree with her on Bodrov’s film, White King, Red Queen (Russians): that this is a failed co-production. But why?