From a Distant Shore

Photojournalist Mikhail Mordasov traveled to Russia’s farthest northwestern shore to get a first-hand look at the town of Teriberka, where the controversial Golden Globe-winning and Oscar-nominated film LEVIATHAN was filmed.

Teriberka is about as far north as you can get.

In terms of latitude, Teriberka is farther north than Salekhard, Naryan-Mar and Anadyr. And much farther north than Yakutsk, Magadan or Khanti-Mansiysk.

By car, it is about 140 kilometers from Murmansk (Russia’s largest city above the Arctic Circle). A portion of the road is paved and rather good; the rest of it is frozen dirt roads. The bus (which is actually rather comfortable) runs to the village every other day.

The village has a hotel, but I could not get a room – it had no water, as the pipes had frozen. Yet it turned out the village had a rental market of sorts: it was possible to rent an apartment in a five-story building.

This far north, the Polar Night lasts about a month and a half. This means that for several weeks in December and January the sun does not come up at all. It does not even peek above the horizon. During these so-called “days,” at around 10-11 in the morning, a pre-dawn twilight begins. Then, around 2 or 3 in the afternoon, it transitions into a post-sunset twilight, without ever passing through daylight.

Visually, the Teriberka of deep winter is rather different from the summer version that appears in the film, but there is a resemblance nonetheless.

A frozen, uninhabited village clothed in snow. Dilapidated homes, abandoned and long unheated, whitened by frost. A tree frozen to a gray hue, dried out by storms. The remains of concrete and metal structures, battered by weather and time.

It is a picturesque ruin, set below the thick blue shadows of the Polar Night.

Soon, one’s gaze becomes accustomed to these somber sights. For one notices that shining through them is the majestic background of the polar landscape. The endless white stillness, the mottled black and white hills, low and severe.

On the shore is a thick, crunching layer of ice. Eddies of fog waft over the ice from the sea beyond.

The sky emits extremely pure, unrealistically clear colors – from deep indigo to gentle pink and fiery red. Here, far from the light of large cities, the nights are dark and the stars shine brightly. It is an excellent place to observe the Northern Lights, which are frequent visitors.

This place, which only just seemed uninhabited and forgotten, begins to come alive.

The village is comprised of two parts: Old Teriberka, where the house of the film’s protagonist stood; and the comparatively new section, Lodeynoe. Old Teriberka is small and almost entirely made up of one and two story wooden homes. Lodeynoe is all brick and cement, with multi-story buildings. The roads are well-plowed, uncorrupted by the sort of chemicals used to prevent ice in Moscow, and are traveled by cars, pedestrians and snowmobiles alike. There is almost no trash. Perhaps it has all been picked up, or perhaps it has been covered in a layer of snow. Yet there are many abandoned buildings and crumbling old boats.

In the evening, near a five-story residential building, some kids skate right on the street. The snow was so trampled and compacted down that it was more like ice. The village has a skating rink, but it was covered with snow and had not been cleared off for several days. A couple of young guys, maybe 12-13 years old, grew tired of waiting for the yardman and headed off to start clearing the snow themselves.

They drink here just like everywhere else in Russia, no more, no less. For every five or six people I pass on the street, one is tipsy. A trio of drunks proposed an excursion about the town starting at 1000 rubles. A pair of sots entered the library while I was there and returned an impressive stack of books, then checked out just as many. Was it just a chance occurrence, or are they really still reading printed books in the villages?

In contrast to the vast majority of small Russian villages and towns, there is industry here. Lodeynoe has a working fish cannery (top photo, page 30-31), the same one where the film’s heroine works. By provincial standards, the workers in the factory earn a small, but entirely tolerable, salary.

Some residents are offended by both the film company and the horde of journalists that descended upon the town after the film won the Golden Globe. The village welcomed them here and helped them, the company lived, ate, drank and had a good time here. Then they turned around and slandered the village in the film.* Others feel that the film showed things in the proper light, or perhaps were even a bit reserved, refraining from showing how bad things really are. And, interestingly, one’s opinion does not seem to depend on whether they have seen the movie or not.

The history of Teriberka can now be divided into two eras: before Leviathan and after. For now, the main difference is that, before, very little was written or said about the village; after, there is plenty.

Perhaps the surge of coverage will bring tourists to Teriberka. But then, why would they come here? To see the beauties of the ends of the earth, or to see how a scrap of civilization disappears into the snowy emptiness? RL

* That the film has won awards in the West for “slandering the homeland” is a common theme in local Russian media.

“It was interesting when they were filming. But we were all working then. They built a church. Near our house they filmed the discovery of a drowning victim. We went to meet [actor Vladimir] Vdovichenkov in Lodeynoe, in the library. I have not see the entire film, just excerpts.”

Yekaterina Ivanovna Yeliseyeva, head of the Dzhinn children’s dance collective and the Masteritsa club.

“I am glad that they made a film about us. Way back when, Boris Nevzorov made a film here about the construction of the hydroelectric station. I did not see the filming of Leviathan myself. But I saw some of the actors when they arrived in the village. I heard about the meeting with Vdovichenkov but didn’t go. I heard that the film might be nominated for an Oscar. I want to buy the film on a disc and watch it.”

Pyotr Semyonovich Zubkov, lifelong resident.

“I watched the film on YouTube. [Director Andrei] Zvyagintsev conveyed our situation perfectly, precisely describing Teriberka and its residents. I think they could have even skipped hiring actors, simply shot the lives of locals, and everything would have been shown just like the actors played it. This film needs to be shown to everyone: to Putin, Medvedev, so that they can see how local leaders have destroyed everything. Zvyagintsev showed things rather judiciously, showing practically none of our grime and devastation. The protagonist had a bathroom in his house, but just try to find something like that in our homes here – they look scary, like after the war. I’ve been three days without water in my home.”

Former medical worker at a closed hospital.

“I only sat through the first 15 minutes of the film. All sorts of journalists are turning up here now, and they all want to show the worst side of things, the devastation. You should show that there is good here; show the positive side of things...

“It’s not the film that offends me most. I have still not seen it, because I want to wait for the official release. I understand that it is not just about Teriberka, but more generally about life in Russia’s remote regions, like ours. I am more upset by what Serebyakov [Alexei Serebyakov, who plays the lead character in the film] said, that our village has drunk itself to oblivion. Previously, he played good roles, I liked his characters. It turns out he is living in Canada, that he is a US citizen, but he works in Russia. I feel you should work where you live. He is being fed by the hand of Russia, then saying things like that about her. I’m of the temperament that I would ban him from working here. I’m embarrassed that we welcomed them here, helped them in every way, and now they are talking us down.”

Tatyana Trubilina, head of Teriberka