Interview – Ivan Sautkin On Documenting Daily Life In Occupied Ukraine

There is something uncanny in the daily experience of receiving war images; the source of such content, often mediated by news agencies with informational or political interests, and the amount of it, delivered in excessive volumes, make us both familiar and distant from the war reality in its full spectrum. What we can think of as the frontline conditions amidst war, and the ways we can feel affected, agitated, or involved often fall short by the orchestrated modes of representation. Through which we can get close to the facts, but the truth of a war can never really meet us. 

I would not question the pressing nature of capturing and distributing such images. I am saying this latter beyond the demanding urgency of an ongoing war (first and foremost on a human level) for solidarity and support, and beyond the claim for historical significance and future paradigmatic contingency. For the purpose of what follows, I will argue that non-fictional war images and audiovisuals serve to preserve crucial moments. They can accurately yet subjectively communicate and archive occurrences that are in danger of becoming saturated memories, narratives of repressed survivors, veterans, or (even worse) politicians of debatable intentions. And so, they are precious testimonies, delivered on time to offer an immediate view of the present imperative needs—yet, with an open and malleable end. 

Such thoughts came to mind when watching ‘Poem for the Little People’, the recently released documentary of Ukrainian Ivan Sautkin. Filmed and produced amidst the Russo-Ukrainian War with authentic footage from the frontline in Eastern Ukraine, Ivan brings a new perspective on an ongoing, violent conflict that we might watch daily, but we still have to get a good grip on. The documentarist attempted to capture the emotional reality of the situation, and by doing so, he stands against acts of reality manipulation and, in turn, distortion of the collective memory and national identity. 

Ivan, from his room in Kiev, spoke to me about the emotional implications of filming such a reality and the importance of forming coalitions to preserve independence in filmmaking and its responsibility in representation. 

In your documentary, you intertwined beautifully stories from two different groups of silent war heroes-the little people, as you chose to name them. On one side, you follow the evacuation crew of volunteers who are trying to safely allocate the remaining citizens from the attacked villages, usually elderly or ill individuals. On the other side, you converse with Zinaida and Taisia, two women of older ages who chose to stay in occupied regions in the spirit of resistance and preservation of what might get lost. They both represent a dynamic – optimistic, if you prefer – reality emerging amidst warfare. How did you make this parallel?

The story starts immediately after the occupation of the north of Ukraine. I went there to see what’s happening. The condition of this region was horrible. The villages around Chernigov were completely destroyed. There, I met Zinaida, and I was impressed by her. She is an old lady (age 85) who chose the hero role instead of the victim role, and this was inspiring. She introduced me to Taisia, a local poet. She is writing absolutely amazing poetry, for its honesty. I had my first shooting session with them. Later on, I was working as a part of the evacuation volunteer groups. I was driving the cars, so I got to see the situation from inside. That’s where I made the parallel between the two groups that chose to have an active role and started to work around it with the camera. 

I wanted to portray the emotional layers of the war instead of giving information. That is an internal rule we have in the collective I work with. The information could be interpreted in many ways and twisted. The mass media can show half the truth in cases of manipulation and propaganda. We prefer an honest approach that considers the emotional situation. I think this angle gives the true image of our lives. 

You decided to take this step and dive into one of the most precarious zones worldwide at the moment. It’s a powerful act, let alone courageous, but I assume that working from such a location is not only physically dangerous but creatively challenging as well. I’m wondering if you had any expectations before you started shooting.

This film was part of the process of experiencing the full scale invasion from the first days. I, like almost all of my colleagues, was quite disappointed. The world and the life we had before were completely crushed. When the war started, I had to rediscover my role in this life. 

I didn’t plan the film until I met the characters and started to work with them. This film is the result of the big research I did along with my previous (short) documentaries. They were also about a new reality. For example, the refugees and volunteers; people who were influenced by political changes, such as the Roma people in western Ukraine.

On the daily evacuation missions that you followed with your camera, we see many strong-opinionated people, struggling to take the decision of leaving their homes behind. One of the underlying and recurring themes we hear them address is faith. You also got footage from a liturgy inside a church. Ukraine is one of the few countries where the Orthodox Church is the primary religious denomination. As a Ukrainian, you are, of course, part of this context; but with this film, you were able to observe the situation from the vantage point the camera can provide. When it comes to faith, how much value do you think religion has in Ukraine since warfare started?

That’s a really interesting observation. Ukrainians are religious, and that’s a part of the truth the documentary depicts. As you can probably understand, this film has a message in a bottle. Europe doesn’t know much about the Ukrainians. They are sometimes difficult individuals. 

I’m not religious or spiritual. The leader of the volunteer crew, Anton (who used to be a director of photography, but since he started volunteering, he doesn’t make films anymore), says that on the frontlines, there is no agnosticism. There is no ground for it. You look for something to keep you going—a sort of authority. At that point, God seems to be a solution.

The majority of the volunteers don’t believe in God. But since the first days of their volunteer work in the front zone, they kick off the day with a kind of prayer. They use a free form to say some words to concentrate. These groups also have foreign volunteers, like American veterans who are too old to fight. They come to Ukraine to provide humanitarian aid. They are well-prepared; they have military experience. They drive cars perfectly, and they know some medical techniques. In one of the shots, we see one of them saying the prayer for the day. I was so surprised to hear how he was thinking and explaining the situation through his prayer. He’s saying that we are going to the valley of death. 

Later on in the film, there is this mysterious episode when the volunteers are helping to evacuate a private museum. At this moment, they are meeting the God painted on the wall, sort of metaphysically. It was really important to include this scene in the film because it makes the parallel complete. 

Considering that the film takes place in an ongoing war zone, the lack of violent visuals is particularly surprising. Although destruction is everywhere and the constant sound of bombing is startling, you managed to avoid any direct imagery of death. In a way, the prevailing idea of the images you provided us with is altruistic solidarity and the spread of love and care. What were your intentions or hopes with this uncommon perspective of war representation?

My response might sound a bit paradoxical. Although we are in very tragic circumstances, one of my main goals was to make a film about happy people.

I was still trying to observe the painful things, because, in my opinion, pain is a good sign of growing inside. Yet, explosions and dead bodies are forbidden content for the younger people, if not for the majority of the audience. I was trying to make something approachable for a larger number of people, and I think that the angle of view I chose is open enough to a wider audience.

This is also honest, since people here are full of life. And that’s motivating. While the occupation moment is very scary, Zenaida, for example, an old lady, was watching and counting Russian tanks through her window. Nobody goes out on the streets because it is so dangerous. Sometimes Russians were checking people inside their homes. But even so, she was sitting and sending information to the intelligence. That’s painful to watch, of course, but interesting as well. 

You made this film under ineffable conditions. It came through a process that often raises the dilemma shared casually among documentarists or photojournalists when they pick up the camera and start shooting the unfolding suffering. In your case, you chose a more optimistic perspective, but you still had to work around pain. I’m wondering, based on the experience you now have after completing this documentary, what is your position as a man behind the camera when filming a painful reality? 

I can respond through an example; around the end of the 1990s, I had this idea to make a documentary about homeless children in Odessa, in the south of Ukraine. In those post-Soviet times, corruption, criminality, and poverty were very high. Lots of homeless children were on the streets of Ukrainian cities, especially in the desert. I went to Odessa with a friend and colleague of mine, a Dutch cinematographer. We found the most horrible situation. The children were on the margins of things, part of the drug and prostitution business. They would smell glue, a cheap sort of drug, to get high. As a result, we didn’t bear to make any shots. We left Odessa, and we tried to forget about the things we saw. I spent one year in deep depression. I wasn’t able to work at all; I couldn’t find any interest in it. 

On the other hand, my colleague Oleksandr Glyadelov, an internationally known Ukrainian documentary photographer, was making a feature repertoire of over 5 years on this subject. He was spending the nights with homeless children in holes in the ground. He was taking pictures at the railway stations and on the streets. This repertoire made the big cut. It had a huge international reach, and it was really impactful on this horrible situation for the children. I, to the contrary, was too soft to make this story, although I think about it to this day. 

These kinds of choices come from phenomenal internal debating: to step up over your feelings and fears, or to go away from the situation. I think it’s more important to analyse, search for a point of view, and keep working. This choice between escaping or trying to solve a situation is, of course, only when it comes to painful matters. But as I said, I find facing pain a mark of growing. 

When you choose to work around such cases, you have to deal with the question of responsibility. I always try to take care of my characters. For example, I am still connected with the volunteer crew. We are helping each other; sometimes I’m collecting some funding from international friends for them to order some medicines or equipment needed for evacuation. I am also in contact with Zinaida and Taisia; we call each other often or I visit them. They are now real friends to me.

Your film is a Ukrainian, Lithuanian, and UK co-production. Since 2022, many organisations or film festivals have been prioritising Ukrainian filmmakers and offering financial aid for the production of films. It is less known what the position of the Ukrainian government is on the matter of recognizing values in the contribution of cultural production amidst war, or at least securing the sector from irreversible damages. If I understood it correctly, the national means have been either halted or geared towards documentation forms. Could you speak a bit about the current filmmaking landscape in Ukraine?

With the full-scale invasion, Ukrainian cinematography exploded. While this year the Kino Pavasaris (Vilnius International Film Festival) received three Ukrainian films, last year they received 60 films—a big number. That’s the first time, I think, in the history of Ukrainian cinematography that films have had so much support from abroad, either from European governments or non-government film institutions. This time, there was a very active movement in Ukrainian cinema. The Ukrainian government is there as well. The following year, they will support film productions as well. But we have a conflict between the local filmmaking community and our government; we are proposing that this support should be allocated to the infrastructural needs of the war. 

In general, Ukrainian cinematography and documentary making are somehow happening through a web, a unity. But there is no clear system. In my case, I work together with an independent collective (Babylon’13). Over the last 10 years, we have made about 400 documentaries sharing the Ukrainian situation. Most of them are in short format and published online, on TV, or in theatres. We made 14 feature documentaries, and now we have 4 features under production. That’s a quite successful initiative. We are not really counting on the local support we can get from the government. We search for financial support mostly abroad. For this documentary, I started shooting with my own money—a very small budget that allowed me to pay for the gas and buy some food on the front line. Later on, with the producer, we went through the process of filling out application forms and approaching forums and film festivals. We had smaller grants to cover production needs. But we also found the European Solidarity Fund for Ukrainian Films (ESFUF) by the CNC, which covered the post-production phase. 

On a similar but more practical note, searching for and finding support is often a time-consuming process. You started shooting in 2022, and in about a year or two, you were able to complete the documentary and screen it with no discount on the quality or any apparent hasty decisions. Since you received financial support from international resources, I think it’s important to share the ways you navigated the funding bureaucracy, which can often be grinding. How did you manage to match the production of such a demanding film with the urgency of an ongoing war? 

We are in a rush with the work we do now. We don’t have the usual production phases. Everything happens at the same time, research, script-making, and raising funding from around the world. It was actually my producer who was travelling to festivals for partnerships and funding (as a woman, she was allowed to go abroad). Along with that, we worked on post-production materials, like sound recordings, colour correction trials, and discussions for editing. We were improvising as well.

That’s a kind of hybrid filmmaking. I don’t work with agencies, but with creative collectives. Together, we have a few official instruments, like an office, connections with NGOs, and just two in-house administrators who are working on the legal rights and the agreements about the films. That’s not an organisation, but a union. I think of it as a collective effort where everybody is working separately. For example, I have my own crew, as do my colleagues from the collective, so we don’t cross paths in the process. But we follow the same philosophy for the content, and we publish our works under the same brand. We focus on maintaining an active civil position. We’re watching the things that are happening in Ukraine from the bottom. 

What do you hope you can work on when the war finally ends? 

I am already in production for the next feature film, which is also poetic. ‘A Poem for the Little People’ is a film where the audience reacts by crying. But with the next one, I want to make everybody laugh. It is about the cult of Taras Shevchenko, the famous Ukrainian artist and poet from the 19th century. He is considered to be the voice of the nation. His poetry is very important to the Ukrainians, and we are still following it when it comes to fighting for human rights or independence. Everybody wants to be connected with him, even literally. Many claim to be his great grandsons or granddaughters. So with this film, I want to make tests and find the real DNA of the nation. 

A Poem For Little People (Поема Про Маленьких Людей)

Documentary, 85’, 2023, Director, Cinematography, Editing: Ivan Sautkin, Producer: Olena Saulich, Premiere: October 22, 2023 (Molodist Kyiv International Film Festival), International Premiere: March 21, 2024, Denmark (CPH DOX)