Casting

Abandon Clothes, All Ye Who Enter Here

How did I end up there? It all began on a beautiful spring day in late April 2011. I was walking through Moscow with a photographer friend, discussing our creative plans. I was venting about how hard it was to find a job in my field after graduating. Following his advice, I had sent exactly 100 resumes to 100 landscape bureaus in Moscow and had gone to the three interviews I was offered. My friend had even given me money to start learning English; I had already enrolled in the EF school and paid for the first level (there was an option later to go to Ireland to work and study the language more deeply).
I received a call from a Ukrainian number while we were walking along Vernadsky Avenue. A pleasant, friendly female voice told me an enchanting story: they were in Kharkiv filming a movie about a brilliant Soviet physicist and were looking for an actress to play his mistress. At the phrase "filming a movie," the world slipped from under my feet — I had dreamed of being in a movie since I was seven! As a teenager, I had thought about applying to VGIK (the film institute) for acting, but then I’d cut myself off: "Where do you think you’re going? You have no talent, you’re nothing, you’re lazy." Ultimately, I went into landscape design because my mother led me there — there were only four people per spot, unlike acting, where rumors said it was 100.
So, I caught fire instantly when Asya (the girl on the phone) asked if I was ready to go for a casting call the very next day. "We’ll pay for your round-trip tickets, feed you, and all that," she said. I resisted a little because everything was moving so fast; I wanted to postpone it by at least three days, but they begged me to come urgently.
Twenty-four hours later, I was shivering on a train headed toward Ukraine, seized by euphoria from my fingertips to the crown of my head. The euphoria took hold of me even though I had spent the entire day reading online reviews about the filming (it wasn’t called "The Project" back then). Those reviews made me feel sick and anxious; I even doubted whether I should go at all because the rumors were so horrific. They described a sadistic director, people being overworked in a crushing atmosphere, lack of sleep, delayed wages, and non-professional actors being forced to have real sex in erotic scenes because "everything is for real."
But the thrill and the hope of fulfilling my childhood dream of being in cinema won out. I decided to go. And when the train pulled away and I realized there was no turning back, the spirit of adventure took over.
The next morning, the train pulled into the Kharkiv station. I was supposed to be met by their driver with a sign. I was terrified he wouldn’t show up or that he’d turn out to be some kind of maniac. But the driver was there, and he turned out to be a pleasant man. When we arrived at the film studio and I met Asya — dressed all in white — I felt a wave of profound relief. She was such a lovely girl! Everyone meeting me seemed so kind.
First, I was fed by wonderful chefs at the studio (people there were still wearing modern clothes). Up on the second floor, Asya told me everything she could about the project. She showed me numerous albums and books filled with illustrations. I was blown away ("prikhuyela") by the sheer scale of what had already been done and the plans yet to come. Judging by the costume sketches, the scene storyboards, and the photos of already filmed sequences, it was clear that incredibly talented people, truly passionate about their work, were involved. It inspired me deeply.
Then I was led downstairs to the wardrobe department. There, I met Lyubov and Irina, the costume designers. Soulful Soviet music was playing on the radio. Lyubov was a very pleasant woman who expressed — sincerely, it seemed to me — her hope that I would work with them because she liked me so much. Both Irina and Lyubov dressed me in various Soviet-era outfits and shoes, even picking out period-appropriate lingerie. I felt like a movie star. They gave me a simple but cute Soviet hairstyle just to present me to the directors and the man behind it all — Ilya Khrzhanovsky.
At that point, I had no idea what he looked like or who he was. I hadn't yet seen his first feature film, which took four years to shoot (appropriately titled "4"). They took my picture. The photographer was a young woman who seemed exhausted by the routine; she was calm with me. For a while, I sat on the first floor near the entrance to the "Institute."
The Institute was a gargantuan set, built and equipped so that one could live inside it for months. Somewhere in the depths of that entrance stood two guards in black — I vividly remember the breeches (galife), which came as a shock. A petite but masculine woman, also in dark Soviet garb, paced back and forth; she reminded me of the slogan "Glory to the Revolution!"
Back then, I didn't really know history — my attempts to understand it in school had been futile. My grasp of the USSR in the 30s, 40s, and 50s was a vague blur from movies and fiction. However, my photographer friend had already forced me to read Solzhenitsyn’s The Gulag Archipelago. So, in a way, I did have some inkling of what I was stepping into.
Then I was brought back to the second floor, where the directors, editors, cinematographers, and sound engineers were hanging out. It’s worth mentioning that the walls on the second floor were painted bright white. There were large windows, and sunlight flooded the entire studio. This brightness made everything feel open and safe. The sofas were Soviet-style, but because the studio itself hadn't been converted into a period set yet, it felt like a modern, creative hub. This contrast was deceptive; I didn't realize then that this was the boundary between the "real world" and the world they were about to submerge me in. Asya introduced me to her family that she had found on set: her husband was a cameraman, and their son was playing nearby on one of the many Soviet-style sofas. The studio felt bright and welcoming, as the modern interior hadn't been replaced with Soviet decor yet.
Asya told me they were planning to spend the entire summer filming a block titled "Anya’s Apartment," which would be dedicated entirely to me — if the directors (or the Director, I don't remember) liked me. They were negotiating with owners of preserved Soviet-era communal apartments where the characters would actually live while being filmed. They envisioned me moving in there. When they asked what I did, I told them I was a photographer — I shot on film, developed it myself, and even had experience with darkroom printing. They promised to set up a fully equipped darkroom just for me. If, of course, the Director likes me, I thought, my heart pounding. The promised salary was $700 a month.
Later, I spoke with Inna. In an emotional burst, I entrusted her with such dark corners of my soul — even some of my fetishes — that I still shock myself thinking about it today. I wanted to impress her. I shared some of this with Asya too, but not with Vera. Vera frightened me for some reason. After talking to her at the Paris premiere in 2019, I realized she often communicated in a passive-aggressive way.
Then, I had to wait. I was waiting for Ilya to call me into his office. The same Ilya who was described online as a tyrant and a dictator on set, but whom Asya called a "perfectionist" who demanded everything be perfect. I waited...