To Russia with Love

“Terrorism is an ideology, a method of instilling fear in society. I am not trying to frighten the general public.”
–Kirill Kalugin, Russian LGBT Activist

Found footage of President Vladimir Putin announcing with honour Russia’s bid for the Olympics is the beginning of a series of spliced news clips establishing the central subject of To Russia with Love, a documentary on the 2014 Winter Olympics, directed by Noam Gonick. Leading up to the games, Russia passed a law banning same-sex relationships, treating homosexuality and transgender identities as criminal acts. In a continued volley of footage, Gonick places the Olympics at the political centre of what is deemed a human rights infringement, where it was hoped that countries would boycott the Olympics in order to force Russia to reverse its regressive law. Despite good reason and worldwide protests, not one country pulled out of the games. There were lesser gestures like President Barack Obama naming long-time gay spokesperson and tennis star Billie Jean King as part of a US delegation to the games, and numerous world leaders did boycott the opening event. Otherwise there was little outward international governmental action. Exacerbating this lack was the IOC itself, which restated adamantly that it prohibited any political statements or gestures by its members. Was it then left to individual athletes, in particular gay athletes, to break the rules in order to take public action? This question is one that is posited by Gonick, who tracks openly gay athletes through their Olympic trials and on to Sochi, a little known resort city, before the games began.

The Canadian release of the documentary was held by intention at the Canadian Museum for Human Rights in Winnipeg the evening before it aired to the nation on CBC Television. Produced by Epix, a conglomerate of Lionsgate, Paramount and MGM, and distributed by Cinephil, it had already screened in the US and internationally. For those who know Gonick’s films, videos and installations, To Russia with Love is certainly his most mainstream, fitted with detached voice-overs and coaxing music. Even though he is an established filmmaker, ascertaining himself in 2004 with Stryker, a feature film on Aboriginal gangs in Winnipeg, and before that Hey, Happy! in 2001, his works veer more to the experimental with moments of constructed absurdity than to straight up documentary or narrative. Consistently his work has crossed political structures with issues of gender, sexual preference and performance. One example is No Safe Words, 2008, a multi-channel video piece that captured the hazing rituals of the Thunderbirds, a university football team, revealing it as highly sexualized and juxtaposing it with political imagery of dictators, protests, pride parades and police participation. Also emblematic is 1919, a short film about the Winnipeg general strike seen through a gay bathhouse window, and A Place for Us, one of my favourites, a super-eight structuralist portrait of Marcia Ferreria, a trans woman who moves through the Manitoba landscape into an amusement park which, at the time, was the future site of the museum where I watched the Winnipeg premiere of To Russia with Love.

The debate about whether gay athletes participating in the games have the responsibility to become activists for LGBT rights through protest and in support of Russians is an open speculation throughout To Russia with Love. On one side, the argument for their responsibility is reinforced by the representation of strong historical figures such as Martina Navratilova, Mark Tewksbury and Greg Louganis and younger athletes like NBA player Jason Collins, all of whom “came out” in the sports world and took strong LGBT advocacy roles. At the same time, the desire and confidence to speak out was challenged by the fact that the athletes Gonick followed were very young and not medal winners. They weren’t thrust into the spotlight and where by chance they were, they held back, repressing themselves when faced with the camera. There was an overall sense of disappointment in the lack of action. Two snowboarders who were a couple embrace but regret not kissing after loosing their hopes for a medal, and one young speed skater from Calgary did express frustration at the pressure placed on her to protest. In another scene English actor Stephen Fry suggests that the athletes should use a physical gesture such as crossing their wrists high on their chests to signify solidarity with LGBT people. But no such unity amongst athletes and Olympic stakeholders was formed.

This absence was compounded by Gonick as he juxtaposed the athlete’s stories with those of Russian activists who were shown fighting for their cause and their lives. A group of Russian LGBT activists who ran the Open Games after the Olympics found themselves thwarted at every turn by bomb threats, smoke bombs and venue closures. Kirill Kalugin, who was quoted earlier, is public about his sexuality and as the voice of the narrator states, gave his body to the cause; in the film we see him beaten and smashed about for his refusal to hide. And then there is Vlad, a 17 year old, one of only a few outwardly gay activists in Sochi, a city whose mayor said there were no homosexuals living there, despite the existence of local gay bars. Gonick crosses the objective-observer line as he directs Vlad into the hands of Billie Jean King and has him meet the sports announcer Johnny Weir, a key figure in the documentary and also one of its executive producers. It seemed all parties became cohorts in getting the teenager out of Russia and to the US. Admittedly, I winced when Vlad got to New York City and the cliché of a free America began as the young Russian expressed in amazement that there are free people in America, there are happy people, while in Russia people are not free. Even if moving Vlad to the US took the narrative to an old cliché, it was one that saved him from the terrors of his daily life, where he was bullied and beaten.

Near the beginning of the documentary, we are introduced to Weir at a media event announcing his participation in the games, where he calls protestors who are holding a sign reading “Weir Russian Olympic Clown” idiots. He is quickly taken to task not just for his participation in the games but for his ridicule of four individuals who are well-known LGBT activists. This clash has reverberations through the documentary, albeit gentler without name-calling on either side, when activists and athletes are placed next to each—the former prodding the latter to be stronger, more vocal opponents.

The film is both spectacular—full of tear-provoking moments and dramatic scenes—as well as nuanced in its earnest look at the varied lines and actions that define what activism is and what an activist looks like, drawing a spectrum from Kalugin, the studied and self-mobilizing strategist who calls himself a queer-extremist, to Weir, a figure skating champion who loves Russia. Kalugin, with his friends, speaks about Prometheus, the Greek god and protector of mankind, while Weir states with conviction he is not a rainbow flag waver and will not protest anything, but at the same time he will not hide that he is “as gay as them come.” The athlete-turned-announcer was on air at the Sochi games boldly dressed in pink blazers, wearing rhinestone barrettes and glitter make-up—his sheer flamboyancy a political gesture. ❚

Jenifer Papararo is the Director of Artistic Programs at Plug In ICA, Winnipeg, and a founding member of the artist collective Instant Coffee.