In the shadows

I forgot to mention in my previous post: Asya told me they planned to finish the film entirely in 2012 and submit it to the Cannes Film Festival. At the time, my fascination with auteur cinema was at its peak. I was devouring films that didn’t just win prizes but redefined the medium. Another photographer friend of mine, Dima Kuklin, had infected me with a passion for movies like Lars von Trier’s Breaking the Waves, Peter Greenaway’s The Cook, the Thief, His Wife & Her Lover, and many other works that were completely new and extraordinary to me.
I wasn’t at all disturbed by the fact that Ilya used non-professional actors and forced them to live their roles in the sets rather than act. I wouldn't say I had deeply studied the techniques Lars von Trier used, but I had heard things—about the Dogme 95 manifesto, and how he had pushed Björk (who played the lead in Dancer in the Dark) to such an extent during filming that she ended up in a psychiatric clinic to recover from a breakdown.
Yet, none of this stopped me. The ambition of it all, the proximity to that level of "high art," blinded me to the danger.
I found all of this wildly fascinating. I wanted to sacrifice myself on the altar of Great Art for the Great Artist. After they showed me footage featuring my favorite band, Auktyon (Leonid Fedorov is a friend of Ilya’s), whose music I listened to incessantly back then, I no longer doubted that something Great was being created here, and I had a chance to be part of it. As for the nervous breakdowns, if I thought about them at all, it was in this vein: many artists who created works of sublime beauty were "sick" people, and I considered myself a budding artist starting my own path.
I waited for Ilya while he consulted with some editors. The studio, which had been nearly empty in the morning, was now filling up with people. I watched everyone busy with their tasks, talking amongst themselves. There was no sign of the "nervous tension" I had read about online.
Finally, I entered Ilya’s office. It was a rather large, bright, elongated room with several desks cluttered with papers and computers. There were several cabinets and sideboards filled with collections of Soviet packaging—various sealed tin cans and bottles (some, it seemed, actually contained drinks). I remember seeing packs of Marlboro cigarettes on the desk—the same ones I later saw in his film "4".
Ilya and I sat down across from each other. At first, he was brightly lit by the daylight streaming from the window behind my back, while I was cast in my own shadow. He noticed this immediately and demanded we swap places. Now, I was illuminated, and he was in his own shadow.
He was such a strange "young uncle" (only 11 years older than me). Even though he was constantly smiling, there was definitely something devilish, something "Dracula-esque" about him. I had been attracted to such things since the 10th grade, when I listened rapturously to Agatha Christie’s "Fairytale Taiga": "Satan walks through the forest at night, collecting fresh souls." I didn't know who this Satan was, but I was curious to meet him. During our conversation, I felt playful. I think I radiated a certain vibe: "Come on, pull one of your dictatorial stunts, let's see how funny it is."
He didn’t pull any specific "stunts," but he questioned me about my life, my background, and what I was doing. I told him about my complicated history with men: how I had chosen a tyrant and a despot—someone who didn't love me but with whom there was plenty of "fire"—over a man who truly loved me.
Ilya clarified: "So, you like being fucked, not loved?"
"Yes," I answered honestly, without a hint of embarrassment.
At that time, I was still struggling to recover from a relationship with a "person" who cynically manipulated my guilt. By the end, he had even physically beaten me. He even went to my mother to try and talk her into getting me back after I finally decided to leave. My mother confronted him so harshly that he finally left me alone. I’m grateful to her for that, but on the other hand—why was I raised in a way that made me value myself so little in relationships?
I shared something else sad from my life, and Ilya sighed with dissatisfaction—exactly like my mother does when she finds out I’ve made a decision she doesn't like. Or perhaps that was just my perception. He told me about the project: that people lived there in a reconstructed Soviet Union of the 40s and 50s. He said one could immerse oneself in it, but one shouldn't go completely insane; you had to walk along the edge, so to speak.
He asked if I wanted to participate. I said "yes."
"And why do you need this?"
"To know myself, to study myself," I replied, or something to that effect. I kept quiet about my dream of seeing myself on the big screen.
Ilya asked: "Are you a happy person? Or are you a hysteric?"
I replied: "I’m a happy hysteric."
"Could you kill a person?"
"No."
"But what if..."
"Well, if it were a threat to my family and loved ones..."
I don't remember everything—after twelve years, much fades from memory. But I remember giving him the impression that I was working on my "dark sides."
And that was where our conversation ended. I returned to the common studio to wait for the verdict. After a short while, Inna informed me: "Ilya liked you." She added that they planned to start the "Anya’s Apartment" block in mid-May and finish by the end of August. They fed me and bought me a ticket home.
While I still had some time before heading to the train station, I found myself back in Ilya’s office, but he was gone. Asya and someone else were there, looking through my photographs. Asya pointed to one of my models—a girl I had photographed extensively back then—and asked if I could provide her contact information. They wanted to invite her for a casting call, too.
Oh, how that bothered me at the time. I remember it clearly now. I was terrified they wanted to compare us—that she would likely please them more than I did, and they would cast her in the role instead of me. They admired my photos and discussed the plans for me to live as a photographer in a communal apartment all summer, where certain film episodes would be shot. It didn't even occur to me to ask, "What kind of episodes will they be?" But then again, they didn't seem to know themselves.
That evening and through the night, I was hurtling back to Moscow on the train (the trains were practically empty back then; you could travel and savor the solitude). I listened to music and conjured up beautiful, thrilling images of my future cinematic destiny. I trusted these people with whom I’d shared such a lovely few hours. I no longer thought about the horrific things I’d read online in the reviews about the film project.