Time to read: 10 minutes(s)

Russian viewers associate Yakut cinema with festival arthouse or thriller films. Ayta, which enjoyed box office success this spring. The short films of up-and-coming director Nikolai Koryakin don't fit this conventional notion of the Sakha film industry. Instead of social drama, the director opted for black comedy, in which the sounds of the khomus are replaced by obscene language, fairytale-like natural scenes by market stalls, and patriotic pathos by kitchen conversations. The films turned out to be relatable to most people, starring ordinary Yakuts, and achieving fame without being shown in theaters. The story of their creation illustrates what's happening in Yakutia today, where anyone can write a script, call on friends for help, and make a film. In a conversation with NeMoskva, Nikolai discussed how he managed to persuade people to work for free, why he's not ashamed to copy Tarantino's techniques, and how he came up with the idea to make a Wes Anderson-style drama. 

Before making films, Nikolai Koryakin ran a YouTube channel and produced film reviews. One of his episodes was dedicated to the latest work of renowned Yakut director Nikita Arzhakov—a historical film. Tygyn Darkhan.  This monumental work about the ancestor of the Sakha people, whose production cost 255 million rubles from the republic's budget, and involved more than 10 Yakutians. Nikolai didn't like the film, and he openly stated this in his interview. 

For this review, some criticized Koryakin, while others suggested he make the film himself. Nikolai liked the idea and began learning how to make films. First, he experimented on himself, then brought his daughter and niece into the filming. He got the hang of it. Then a friend of Nikolai's agreed to star in a short film, and likes and comments from famous filmmakers along the lines of "you're doing it right, keep going" gave him confidence. 

 I shot a few more videos, then decided to develop my screenwriting skills. I remembered my childhood favorites, "Pulp Fiction" and "Reservoir Dogs." Thus, the plot of a short film was born about two villagers who, in the tradition of "black comedy," deal with the consequences of a misunderstood "order" and figure out how to dispose of the body. Basically, a Tarantino-style story with a Yakut twist. In the final scenes of "Ubaha Ete" ("Foal Meat"), the two argue behind the counter, trying to sell the meat they earned through barter.   

"It's an unusual film for Yakutia. Weren't you afraid the moralists would hate it?" 

"I was mentally prepared for this. Over the years I've been reviewing films, I've encountered a variety of audience reactions, including outright hate, especially after my criticism of Tygyn Darkhan." 

We filmed the first part of the short film in the village of Magaras, where I'm from. The lead roles were played by my friend Vladislav Nikanorov, with whom I played in KVN, and my brother Mikhail Fedotov. They only agreed after much persuasion and a promise that if they didn't like the film, it wouldn't be released. 

There wasn't much preparation for filming. My actors didn't even read the script, which was sent to them in advance. They quickly memorized the lines beforehand and improvised. Some takes were done up to 30 times. That's why the swearing in the shot is so natural—the guys were nervous, tired, and eager to get it over with. I knew Slava's acting skills, so I strove for a pure performance. And Misha was himself, helping him avoid slipping into theatrics. It was a perfect balance. 

I was so engrossed in the process that I didn't notice the passing of time or how much I'd exhausted everyone. We only finished after my friend Leonid, who was helping with the filming, insistently asked us to end the day. It was already four in the morning. Later, Slava and Misha admitted how exhausted they were when they walked home, doubting whether they should continue filming.   

I was very pleased with the result of our work. But I still had some doubts—what if it was just me? I showed a rough cut to friends, and they were also delighted. My doubts were finally dispelled by producer Marianna Siagan, whose credits include "My Killer" and "Icchi." She connected me with sound engineer Pyotr Skryabin and editor Konstantin Syromyatnikov, whose help brought the film to its final form. I am grateful to them and Marianna. 

I was confident the film would be a hit, even though I was nervous. After its release, my YouTube channel was getting 10 views every day. The comments were positive, with 4 likes and 200 dislikes. I was, of course, blown away by the audience's reaction.  

Many Yakuts want Yakut films to portray the republic in a positive light. Your short film features a popular song about a national holiday, against the backdrop of which a hapless killer plans to dismember a corpse. There's a lot of swearing, and the characters discuss naming streets after revolutionaries who "had nothing to do with Yakutia." How did filmmakers react to your experience?     

"It seems Yakut filmmakers were divided into two camps. The first believed that films with swearing were unacceptable. The second believed that all genres were good and supported me. Some claimed I was trying to hype things up." 

For me, there are as many opinions as there are people, but you have to prove your worth to everyone. I recently completed filming a full-length family drama and proved that I don't just make "bad" movies with swearing.  

I had no plan to create a buzz around "Ubaha Ete." It just happened naturally. But I'm ready to prove every time that I can make good films.    

— Is it difficult to make films without a specialized education? 

"The specific nature of Yakut filmmaking is that directors are more likely to have organizational skills. They need to be both a producer and a screenwriter, as well as the person driving the entire filmmaking process. Otherwise, they'll stall, and the film will never be made. Therefore, a slightly different set of skills is required."  

I love cinema, and right now, work comes easily to me, and my eyes sparkle. Filming a feature film was challenging, though. I don't know what will happen next, but right now, I'm enjoying making films.  

— You say you use techniques from famous directors. Did your film reviews help in this regard?     

"Of course, being well-read plays a role. But I'd like to thank my Russian language and literature teacher. When we were preparing for the Unified State Exam, she constantly made us write reviews of works of fiction from the school curriculum. I loved literature lessons; I loved analyzing works and writing essays on the topic, 'What the author meant to say...'" 

Now I believe the very question of what the author meant by this is flawed—how can an eleventh-grader possibly know what Tolstoy was thinking when he wrote his novels? But the acquired skill of reflection, in my opinion, is invaluable.     

For example, he helped me process my emotions during the farm scene in Inglourious Basterds. Every viewer watching the conversation between Hans Land and the farmer was in a state of intense tension. I even felt my stomach churn. This is one of Tarantino's signature techniques that makes him a great director. I wanted to replicate it in one of my films. 

The opportunity presented itself when I was filming the second part.

 "Ubaha Ete," where the entire scene takes place during a feast. We used realistic dialogues and conversation topics that have occurred more than once in any man's life. I had the scene's structure in mind, and my friend Sandal Nikanorov and I wrote the script, and the crew came up with some jokes on set. 

— I watched interviews with the actors and was surprised.  Firstly, all but one of them are unprofessional, and secondly, they came through a casting process. I never would have thought that Yakut men would want to act in films. How did you manage it? 

"Of course, the success of "Ubaha Ete" brought so much attention to the project. People wanted to be a part of it. For the same reason, I received the consent of Olonkho Theater actor Dmitry Alekseev, who played the role of the antagonist." 

I was confident I'd find actors for all the roles except one—the henpecked husband. If I hadn't found him, I wouldn't have made the second part of the film. But thanks to Vladimir Gerasimov, the project came to fruition.   

The film crew worked for free on the idea. I spent 13 rubles on gas, food, and energy drinks for both parts of the film. My love for cinema and friendship won out. My friends help me completely selflessly. I am immensely grateful to them for this.  

— But with a full-length film, of course, it’s a different story? 

— Yes, of course. I received a grant of 500 rubles from the Sinet Sakhawood foundation. The administration of the Gorny Ulus, where I'm from, allocated 300 rubles. I took out a loan for a certain amount from the bank. That was just for filming. I took out a loan from the Gorny Ulus administration for post-production. My fellow countrymen have been very supportive in this regard; they want our ulus to have its own filmmakers. I'm happy for the support and grateful to them. I hope to raise the funds myself for future projects. 

— In the end, how long did it take you to transition from filming a short to a full-length? 

— About two and a half years. The new film, "Timir," will be released on January 2,5th. In it, I want to explore a social issue, but not approach it from a moralizing or purely dramatic perspective. In the story, a boy named Timir, after his mother's death, moves in with his father, with whom he hasn't spoken since his parents' divorce. Now he's adapting to life in the village, where he has no friends and practically knows his father. 

Divorce, unfortunately, is a common occurrence. I'm a trained supplementary education teacher and worked at the Yakutsk Children's Palace for five years. It was always sad to watch children struggle in class to compensate for the attention they were deprived of from their parents, especially their fathers. So, I decided to use a film to express how much children need their fathers. We shot the film in the style of American filmmaker Wes Anderson. (Film critics consider Anderson's films to be part of the tradition of eccentric cinema and call him a genius of visual worlds. His famous films include The Grand Budapest Hotel, Isle of Dogs, and The Darjeeling Limited. note: "NonMoscow").   

"Aren't you afraid of criticism? They'll say you're just copying others."  

"Stories always repeat themselves. The only differences are in the locations and national characteristics. Our film is the world of Wes Anderson, but set in a Yakut village. We use a specific color palette and camera movements, characteristic of this director's work."     

But we're filming in Yakutia. The colors are different here, the nature is unique. I'm Sakha, I have a different cultural background. As a result, we're getting a different story, not a complete rehash of Anderson's film. Besides, I don't see any shame in using the techniques of recognized masters. 

I have no ambitions to create anything that doesn't exist now, especially since all the techniques and methods have long been invented. I enjoy making, for example, a Yakut version of Hitchcockian suspense, constructing dialogue in the style of Tarantino, and who's to stop me from doing that?   

— What is the phenomenon of Yakut cinema? How do you explain the Yakut film boom? 

"I think storytelling skills are genetically innate. Our ancestors shared legends and horror stories on long winter evenings. And an olonkhosut (epic storyteller) could tell a story as intricate and lengthy as a Netflix series. Everyone sitting around the fireside listened attentively." 

The same chemistry is now happening between Yakut directors and their audiences.